THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


X 


J 


EARLY   Pocns 


BY 

RUSSELL  LOWELL 


CHICAGO 

HOMEWOOD  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


7% 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


A  1     J  PAGE- 

Appledore  .....................  .  ................       7 

To  the  Dandelion  .........   ..........  o 

Dara     .........  TO 

'"" 


... 

Prometheus.    .    .   ..........................     i% 

Rosaline  ......   ........................         31 

Sonnet  .    .    .    .  ,  .........................  35 

A  Glance  behind  the  Curtain  ...................  36 

A  Song..  .......................  .....  '.'..'..".'.'.'.'  45 

The  Moon  ....................  4t 

The  Fatherland  ..............  _   ........  .'.'.'.'.'.'.'  48 

A  Parable  .................  „  .    .  .  ................  40 

On  the  Death  of  a  Friend's  Child  ......  .  .   .........     51 

An  Incident  in  a  Railroad  Car  .....................  54 

An  Incident  in  the  Fire  at  Hamburgh  ...............  57 

Sonnets  .....................  .......  60 

The  Unhappy  Lot  of  Mr.  Knott  ...    I  ..............  63 

Hakon's  Lay  ................  qo 

To  the  Future  .....................  ......."!.  93 

Out  of  Doors  ...............  .    ..................     96 

A  Reverie  ..................................  '  .  9g 

In  Sadness  ..................  ..............          ]   I00 

Farewell  ...........  .......    ...............  '   IO2 

A  Dirge  ........................  ......'..'..'.'.'.'.'..  106 

Fancies  about  a  Rosebud  .......................  112 

New  Year's  Eve,  1844  ...........................   H4 

A  Mystical  Ballad.  .............................   I2o 

Opening  Poem  to  "A  Year's  Life"  ..............    !   124 

Dedication  to  "A  Year's  Life"  ..................   125 

Threnodia  .........................    ......   I2e> 

The  Serenade  ..............................  127 

Song  ............................  ........  ".'.132 

The  Departed  .............................   ......  133 

3 


306418- 


4  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

The  Bobolink 137 

Forgetfulness ; 140 

Song 141 

The  Poet 142 

Flowers 143 

The  Lover 148 

ToE.W.G 150 

Isabel... 152 

Music , . . . , 154 

Song ..., 158 

Janthe , 161 

Love's  Altar , 167 

My  Love , ,...,.    .   168 

With  a  Pressed  Flower , .  171 

Impartiality ,    .  172 

Bellerophon 173 

Something  Natural 178 

The  Syrens > ..179 

A  Feeling 182 

The  Beggar 183 

Serenade  . .  185 

Irene ,., 186 

The  Lost  Child , 189 

The  Church 190 

The  Unlovely 192 

Love-Song 194 

Song 195 

A  Love-Dream 197 

Fourth  of  July  Ode 199 

Sphinx 200 

"Goe,  Little  Booke," 203 

Sonnets: 

I.  Disappointment 204 

II.  Great  Human  Nature 205 

III.  To  a  Friend 205 

IV.  So  may  it  be 260 

V.  O  Child  of  Nature 206 

VL  "For  this  true  nobleness" 207 

VII.  To 207 

VIII.  Might  I  but  be  beloved 208 

IX.  Why  should  we  ever  weary? 209 


CONTENTS.  5 

Sonnets:  PAGE. 

X.    Green  Mountains 209 

XI.    My  Friend,  adown  Life's  Valley 210 

XH»    Verse  cannot  say 210 

XIIL    The  soul  would  fain 211 

XIV.    I  saw  a  gate  .-...,...„ 211 

XV.    I  would  not  have  this  perfect  love 212 

XVL    To  the  dark,  narrow  house  , 212 

XVIL    I  fain  would  give  to  thee .....213 

XVIII.    Much  I  had  mused  of  Love 213 

XIX.    Sayest  thou,  most  beautiful 214 

XX.  Poet,  who  sittest  in  thy  pleasant  room. .  .215 

XXI.    "No  more  but  so?" 215 

XXII.  To  a  Voice  heard  in  Mount  Auburn. ....  .216 

XXIII.  On  Reading  Spenser  again 216 

XXIV.  Light  of  mine  eyes! 217 

XXV.    Silent  as  one  who  treads 217 

XXVI.    A  gentleness  that  grows 218 

XXVII.    When  the  glad  soul 218 

XXVIII.    To  the  Evening-Star 210 

XXIX.    Reading 219 

XXX.    To ,  after  a  Snow-Storm 220 

Sonnets  on  Names: 

I.    Edith 221 

II.    Rose. 221 

III.  Mary 222 

IV.  Caroline 222 

V.    Anne 223 


POEMS. 


APPLEDORE. 

How  looks  Appledore  in  a  storm? 

I  have  seen  it  when  its  crags  seemed  frantic, 
Butting  against  the  maddened  Atlantic, 
When  surge  after  surge  would  heap  enorme 
Cliffs  of  Emerald  topped  with  snow, 
That  lifted,  and  lifted  and  then  let  go 
A  great  white  avalanche  of  thunder, 

A  grinding,  blinding,  deafening  ire 
Monadnock  might  have  trembled  under; 
And   the    island,   whose    rock-roots    pierce 

below 
To  where  they  are  warmed  with  the  central 

fire, 
You  could  feel  its  granite  fibres  racked, 

As  it  seemed  to  plunge  with  a  shudder  and 

thrill 

Right  at  the  breast  of  the  swooping  hill, 
And  to  rise  again,  snorting  a  cataract 
Of  rage-froth  from  every  cranny  and  ledge, 
While  the  sea  drew  its  breath  in  hoarse  and 

deep, 

And  the  next  vast  breaker  curled  its  edge, 
Gathering  itself  for  a  mighty  leap. 
7 


8  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

North,    east,   and   south   there  are  reefs   and 
breakers, 

You    would    never    dream    of    in    smooth 

weather, 
That  toss  and  gore  the  sea  for  acres, 

Bellowing  and    gnashing    and    snarling    to 
gether; 

Look  northward,  where  Duck  Island  lies, 
And  over  its  crown  you  will  see  arise, 
Against  a  background  of  slaty  skies, 

A  row  of  pillars,  still  and  white, 

That  glimmer  and  then  are  out  of  sight, 
As  if  the  moon  should  suddenly  kiss, 

While  you  crossed  the  gusty  desert  by  night, 
The  long  colonnades  of  Persepolis, 
And  then  as  sudden  a  darkness  should  follow 
To  gulp  the  whole  scene  at  a  single  swallow, 
The  city's  ghost,  the  drear,  brown  waste, 
And  the  string  of  camels,  clumsy-paced: — 
Look  southward  for  White  Island  light, 

The  lantern  stands  ninety  feet  o'er  the  tide; 
There  is  first  a  half-mile  of  tumult  and  fight, 
Of  dash  and  roar  and  tumble  and  fright, 

And  surging  bewilderment  wild  and  wide, 
Where  the  breakers  struggle  left  and  right, 

Then  a  mile  or  more  of  rushing  sea, 
And  then  the  lighthouse  slim  and  lone; 
And  whenever  the  whole  weight  of  ocean  is 

thrown 
Full  and  fair  on  White  Island  head, 

A  great  mist-jotun  you  will  see 

Lifting  himself  up  silently 
High  and  huge  o'er  the  lighthouse  top, 
With  hands  of  wavering  spray  outspread, 


LOWELL'S   POEMS.  9 

Groping  after  the  little  tower, 

That   seems    to    shrink,    and    shorten   and 

cower, 

Till  the  monster's  arms  of  a  sudden  drop, 
And  silently  and  fruitlessly 
He  sinks  again  into  the  sea. 

You,  meanwhile,  where  drenched  you  stand, 
Awaken  once  more  to  the  rush  and  roar 

And  on  the  rock-point  tighten  your  hand, 

As  you  turn  and  see  a  valley  deep, 
That  was  not  there  a  moment  before, 

Suck  rattling  down  between  you  and  a  heap 
Of  toppling  billow,  whose  instant  fall 
Must  sink  the  whole  island  once  for  all — 

Or  watch  the  silenter,  stealthier  seas 

Feeling  their  way  to  you  more  and  more ; 

If  they  once  should  clutch  you  high  as  the 
knees 

They  would  whirl  you  down  like  a  sprig  of 
kelp, 

Beyond  all  reach  of  hope  or  help ; — 
And  such  in  a  storm  is  Appledore. 


TO  THE  DANDELION. 

Dear  common  flower,  that  grow'st  beside  the 
way, 

Fringing  the  dusty  road  with  harmless  gold, 
First  pledge  of  blithesome  May, 

Which  children  pluck,  and,  full  of  pride,  up 
hold, 

High-hearted  buccaneers,  o'erjoyed  that  they 


10  LOWELL'S   POEMS. 

An  Eldorado  in  the  grass  have  found, 

Which  not  the  rich  earth's  amble  round 
May  match  in  wealth — thou  art  more  dear  to 

me 
Than  all  the  prouder  Summer-blooms  may  be. 

Gold  such  as  thine  ne'er  drew  the  Spanish  prow 
Though  the  primeval  hush  of  Indian  seas, 

Nor  wrinkled  the  lean  brow 
Of  age,  to  rob  the  lover's  heart  of  ease ; 
'Tis  the  Spring's  largess,  which  she  scatters 

now 
To  rich  and  poor  alike,  with  lavish  hand, 

Through  most  hearts  never  understand 
To  take  it  at  God's  value,  but  pass  by 
The  offered  wealth  with  unrewarded  eye. 

Thou  art  my  tropics  and  mine  Italy ; 
To  look  at  thee  unlocks  a  warmer  clime ; 

The  eyes  thou  givest  me 

Are  in  the  heart,  and  heed  not  space  or  time : 
Not  in  mid  June  the  golden- cuirassed  bee 
Feels  a  more  Summer-like,  warm  ravishment 

In  the  white  lily's  breezy  tent, 
His  fragrant  Sybaris,  than  I,  when  first 
From  the  dark  green  thy  yellow  circles  burst 

Then  think  I  of  deep  shadows  in  the  grass, 
Of  meadows  where  in  sun  the  cattle  graze, 

Where,  as  the  breezes  pass, 
The  gleaming  rushes  lean  a  thousand  ways, 
Of  leaves  that  slumber  in  a  cloudy  mass, 
Or  whiten  in  the  wind,  of  waters  blue 

That  from  the  distance  sparkle  through 


LOWELL'S   POEMS. 

Some  woodland  gap,  and  of  a  sky  above 
Where  one  white  cloud  like  a  stray  lamb  doth 
move. 

My  childhood's  earliest   thoughts  are   linked 

with  thee ; 
The  sight  of  thee  calls  back  the  robin's  song, 

Who  from  the  dark  old  tree 
Beside  the  door,  sang  clearly  all  day  long, 
And  I,  secure  in  childish  piety, 
Listened  as  if  I  heard  an  angel  sing 

With  news  from  Heaven,  which  he  did  bring 
Fresh  every  day  to  my  untainted  ears, 
When   birds  and  flowers   and   I   were   happy 
peers. 

Thou  art  the  type  of  those  meek  charities 
Which  make  up  half  the  nobleness  of  life, 

Those  cheap  delights  the  wise 
Pluck  from  the  dusty  wayside  of  earth's  strife; 
Words  of  frank  cheer,  glances  of  friendly  eyes, 
Love's  smallest  coin,  which  yet  to  some  may 
give 

The  morsel  that  may  keep  alive 
A  starving  heart,  and  teach  it  to  behold 
Some  glimpse  of  God  where  all  before  was 
cold. 

Thy  winged  seeds,   whereof  the  winds  take 

care, 

Are  like  the  words  of  poet  and  of  sage 
Which  through  the  free  heaven  fare, 
And,  now  unheeded,  in  another  age 
Take  root,  and  to  the  gladdened  future  bear 


12  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

That   witness   which   the   present   would    not 

heed, 

Bringing  forth  many  a  thought  and  deed, 
And,  planted  safely  in  the  eternal  sky, 
Bloom  into  stars  which  earth  is  guided  by. 

Full  of  deep  love  thou  art,  yet  not  more  full 
Than  all  thy  common  brethren  of  the  ground, 

Wherein,  were  we  not  dull, 
Some  words  of  highest  wisdom  might  be  found ; 
Yet  earnest  faith  from  day  to  day  may  cull 
Some    syllables,    which,    rightly  joined,    can 
make 

A  spell  to  soothe  life's  bitterest  ache, 
And  ope  Heaven's  portals,  which  are  near  us 

still, 
Yea,  nearer  ever  than  the  gates  of  111. 

How  like  a  prodigal  doth  nature  seem, 
When  thou,  for  all  thy  gold,  so  common  art! 

Thou  teachest  me  to  deem 
More  sacredly  of  every  human  heart, 
Since  each  reflects  in  joy  its  scanty  gleam 
Of  Heaven,  and  could  some  wondrous  secret 

show, 

Did  we  but  pay  the  love  we  owe, 
And  with  a  child's  undoubting  wisdom  look 
On  all  these  living  pages  of  God's  book. 

But  let  me  read  thy  lesson  right  or  no, 

Of  one  good  gift  from  thee  my  heart  is  sure; 

Old  I  shall  never  grow 

While  thou  each  year  dost  come  to  keep  me 
pure 


LOWELL'S   POEMS.  13 

With  legends  of  my  childhood ;  ah,  we  owe 
Well  more  than  half  life's  holiness  to  these 

Nature's  first  holy  influences, 
At  thought  of  which  the  heart's  glad  doors 

burst  ope, 
In  dreariest  days,  to  welcome  peace  and  hope. 


DARA. 

When  Persia's  sceptre  trembled  in  a  hand 
Wilted  by  harem-heats,  and  all  the  land 

Was  hovered  over  by  those  vulture  ills 
That  snuff  decaying  empire  from  afar, 
Then,  with  a  nature  balanced  as  a  star, 

Dara  arose,  a  shepherd  of  the  hills. 

He,  who  had  governed  fleecy  subjects  well, 
Made  his  own  village,  by  the  self-same  spell, 

Secure  and  peaceful  as  a  guarded  fold, 
Till,    gathering  strength    by  slow   and  wise 

degrees, 
Under  his  sway,  to  neighbor  villages 

Order  returned,  and  faith  and  justice  old. 

Now,  when  it  fortuned  that  a  king  more  wise 
Endued  the  realm  with  brain  and  hands  and 

eyes, 

He  sought  on  every  side  men  brave  and  just, 
And  having  heard    the  mountain-shepherd's 

praise, 

How  he  rendered  the  mould  of  elder  days, 
To  Dara  gave  a  satrapy  in  trust. 


14  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

So  Dara  shepherded  a  province  wide, 

Nor  in  his  viceroy's  sceptre  took  more  pride 

Than  in  his  crook  before;  but  Envy  finds 
More  soil  in  cities  than  on  mountains  bare, 
And  the  frank  sun  of  spirits  clear  and  rare 

Breeds  poisonous  fogs  in  low   and  marish 
minds. 

Soon  it  was  whispered  at  the  royal  ear 

That,   though  wise  Dara's  province,  year  by 

year, 
Like  a  great  sponge,  drew  wealth  and  plenty 

up, 

Yet,  when  he  squeezed  it  at  the  king's  behest, 
Some  golden  drops,  more  rich  than  all  the  rest, 
Went  to  the  filling  of  his  private  cup. 

For  proof,  they  said  that  wheresoe'er  he  went 
A  chest,  beneath  whose  weight  the  camel  bent, 

Went  guarded,  and  no  other  eye  had  seen 
What  was  therein,  save  only  Dara's  own, 
Yet,  when  'twas  opened,  all  his  tent  was  known 

To  glow  and  lighten  with  heapt     jewels' 
sheen. 


The  king  set  forth  for  Dara's  province  straight, 
Where,  as  was  fit,  outside  his  city's  gate 

That  viceroy  met  him  with  a  stately  train ; 
And  there,  with  archers  circled,  close  at  hand, 
A  camel  with  the  chest  was  seen  to  stand ; 

The  king  grew  red,  for  thus  the  guilt  was 
plain. 


LOWELL'S   POEMS.  15 

"Open    me    now,"    he  cried,   "yon   treasure- 
chest!" 

'Twas  done,  and  only  a  worn  shepherd's  vest 
Was  found  within ;  some  blushed  and  hung 

the  head, 

Not  Dara;  open  as  the  sky's  blue  roof 
He  stood,  and  "O,  my  lord,  behold  the  proof 
That  I  was  worthy  of  my  trust!"  he  said. 

"For  ruling  men,  lo!  all  the  charm  I  had; 
My  soul,  in  those  coarse  vestments  ever  clad, 
Still  to  the  unstained  past  kept  true  and  leal, 
Still  on  these  plains  could  breathe  her  mountain 

air, 

And  Fortune's  heaviest  gifts  serenely  bear, 
Which  bend  men  from  the  truth,  and  make 
them  reel. 

"To  govern  wisely  I  had  shown  small  skill 
Were  I  not  lord  of  simple  Dara  still ; 

That  sceptre  kept,  I  cannot  lose  my  way!" 
Strange  dew  in  royal  eyes  grew  round    and 

bright 
And  thrilled  the  trembling  lids;  before  'twas 

night 
Two  added  provinces  blessed  Dara's  sway. 


16  LOWELL'S   POEMS. 


TO  J.   F.   H. 

Nine  years  have  slipped  like  hour-glass  sand 

From  life's  fast  emptying  globe  away, 
Since  last,  dear  friend,  I  clasped  your  hand, 
And  lingered  on  the  impoverished  land, 
Watching  the  steamer  down  the  bay. 

I  held  the  keepsake  which  you  gave, 

Until  the  dim  smoke-pennon  curled 
O'er  the  vague  rim  'tween  sky  and  wave, 
And  closed  the  distance  like  a  grave, 
Leaving  me  to  the  outer  world; 

The  old  worn  world  of  hurry  and  heat, 

The  young,  fresh  world  of  thought  and  scope ; 
While  you,  where  silent  surges  fleet 
Tow'rd  far  sky  beaches  still  and  swept, 
Sunk  wavering  down  the  ocean-slope. 

Come  back  our  ancient  walks  to  tread, 
Old  haunts  of  lost  or  scattered  friends, 

Amid  the  Muses'  factories  red, 

Where  song,  and  smoke,  and  laughter  sped 
The  nights  to  proctor-hunted  ends. 

Our  old  familiars  are  not  laid, 

Though  snapped  our  wands  and  sunk  our 
books. 


LOWELL'S   POEMS.  17 

They  beckon,  not  to  be  gainsaid, 
Where,  round  broad  meads  which  mowers  wade, 
Smooth  Charles  his  steel-blue  sickle  crooks; 

Where,  as  the  cloudbergs  eastward  blow, 
From  glow  to  gloom  the  hillside  shifts 

Its  lakes  of  rye  that  surge  and  flow, 

Its  plumps  of  orchard-trees  arow, 

Its  snowy  white- weeds  summer  drifts. 

Or  let  us  to  Nantasket,  there 

To  wander  idly  as  we  list, 
Whether,  on  rocky  hillocks  bare, 
Sharp  cedar-points,  like  breakers,  tear 

The  trailing  fringes  of  gray  mist. 

Or  whether,  under  skies  clear-blown, 

The  heightening  surfs  with  foamy  din, 
Their  breeze-caught  forelocks  backward  blown 
Against  old  Neptune's  yellow  zone, 
Curl  slow,  and  plunge  forever  in. 

For  years  thrice  three,  wise  Horace  said, 

A  poem  rare  let  silence  bind; 
And  love  may  ripen  in  the  shade, 
Like  ours,  for  nine  long  seasons  laid 

In  crypts  and  arches  of  the  mind. 

That  right  Falernian  friendship  old 

Will  we,  to  grace  our  feast,  call  up, 
And  freely  pour  the  juice  of  gold, 
That  keeps  life's  pulses  warm  and  bold, 
Till  Death  shall  break  the  empty  cup. 

2    Lowell 


18  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 


PROMETHEUS. 

One  after  one  the  stars  have  risen  and  set, 
Sparkling  upon  the  hoarfrost  on  my  chain : 
The  Bear  that  prowled  all  night  about  the  fold 
Of  the  North- Star,  hath  shrunk  into  his  den, 
Scared  by  the  blithesome  footsteps  of  the  Dawn, 
Whose  blushing  smile  floods  all  the  Orient; 
And  now  bright  Lucifer  grows  less  and  less, 
Into  the  heaven's  blue  quiet  deep  withdrawn. 
Sunless  and  starless  all,  the  desert  sky 
Arches  above  me,  empty  as  this  heart 
For  ages  hath  been  empty  of  all  joy 
Except  to  brood  upon  its  silent  hope, 
As  o'er  its  hope  of  day  the  sky  doth  now. 
All  night  have  I  heard  voices :  deeper  yet 
The   deep,  low  breathing  of  the  silence  grew, 
While  all  about,  muffled  in  awe,  there  stood 
Shadows,  or  forms,  or  both,  clear-felt  at  heart, 
But,  when  I  turned  to  front  them,  far  along 
Only  a  shudder  through  the  midnight  ran, 
And  the  dense  stillness  walled  me  closer  round, 
But  still  I  heard  them  wander  up  and  down 
That  solitude,  and  flappings  of  dusk  wings 
Did  mingle  with  them,  whether  of  those  hags 
Let  slip  upon  me  once  from  Hades  deep, 
Or  of  yet  direr  torments,  if  such  be, 
I  could  but  guess;  and  then  toward  me  came 
A  shape  as  of  a  woman :  very  pale 


LOWELL'S   POEMS.  19 

It  was,  and  calm ;  its  cold  eyes  did  not  move, 
And  mine  moved  not,  but  only  stared  on  them 
Their  moveless  awe  went  through  my  brain 

like  ice; 

A  skeleton  hand  seemed  clutching  at  my  heart, 
And  a  sharp  chill,  as  if  a  dank  night  fog 
Suddenly  closed  me  in,  was  all  I  felt : 
And  then,  methought,  I  heard  a  freezing  sigh, 
A  long,  deep,  shivering  sigh,  as  from  blue  lips 
Stiffening  in  death,   close    to    mine    ear.      I 

thought 

Some  doom  was  close  upon  me,  and  I  looked 
And  saw  the  red  moon  through  the  heavy  mist, 
Just  setting,  and  it  seemed  as  it  were  falling, 
Or  reeling  to  its  fall,  so  dim  and  dead 
And  palsy-struck  it  looked.     Then  all  sounds 

merged 

Into  the  rising  surges  of  the  pines, 
Which,  leagues  below  me,  clothing  the  gaunt 

loins 

Of  ancient  Caucasus  with  hairy  strength, 
Sent  up  a  murmur  in  the  morning-wind, 
Sad  as  the  wail  that  from  the  populous  earth 
All  day  and  night  to  high  Olympus  soars, 
Fit  incense  to  thy  wicked  throne,  O  Jove. 


Thy  hated  name  is  tossed  once  more  in  scorn 
From  off  my  lips,  for  I  will  tell  thy  doom. 
And   are   these   tears?     Nay,  do  no  triumph, 

Jove! 

They  are  wrung  from  me  but  by  the  agonies 
Of  prophecy,  like  those  sparse  drops  which  fall 
From  clouds  in  travail  of  the  lightning,  when 


20  LOWELL'S   POEMS. 

The  great  wave  of  the  storm,  high-curled  and 

black, 

Rolls  steadily  onward  to  its  thunderous  break. 
Why  art  thou  made  a  god  of,  thou  poor  type 
Of  anger,  and  revenge,  and  cunning  force? 
True  Power  was  never  born  of  brutish  Strength, 
Nor  sweet  Truth  suckled  at  the  shaggy  dugs 
Of  that  old  she-wolf.     Are  they  thunderbolts, 
That  scare  the  darkness  for  a  space,  so  strong 
As  the  prevailing  patience  of  meek  Light, 
Who,  with  the  invincible  tenderness  of  peace, 
Wins  it  to  be  a  portion  of  herself? 
Why  art  thou  made  a  god  of,  thou,  who  hast 
The  never-sleeping  terror  at  thy  heart, 
That  birthright  of  all  tyrants,  worse  to  bear 
Than    this    thy  ravening    bird    on    which    I 

smile? 

Thou  swear 'st  to  free  me,  if  I  will  unfold 
What  kind  of  doom  it  is  whose  omen  flits, 
Across  thy  heart,  as  o'er  a  troop  of  doves 
The  fearful  shadow  of  the  kite.     What  need 
To  know  that  truth  whose  knowledge  cannot 

save? 

Evil  its  errand  hath,  as  well  as  Good; 
When  thine  is  finished,   thou  art  known    no 

more: 

There  is  a  higher  purity  than  thou, 
And  higher  purity  is  greater  strength ; 
Thy  nature  is  thy  doom,  at  which  thy  heart 
Trembles  behind  the  thick  wall  of  thy  might. 
Let  man  but  hope,  and  thou  art  straightway 

chilled 
With  thought  of  that  drear  silence  and  deep 

night 


LOWELL'S.  POEMS.  21 

Which,   like  a  dream,  shall  swallow  thee  and 

thine : 

Let  man  but  will,  and  thou  art  god  no  more ; 
More  capable  of  ruin  than  the  gold 
And  ivory  that  image  thee  on  earth. 
He  who  hurled  down  the  monstrous    Titan- 
brood 
Blinded  with  lightnings,  with  rough  thunders 

stunned, 

Is  weaker  than  a  simple  human  thought. 
My  slender  voice  can  shake  thee,  as  the  breeze, 
That  seems  but  apt  to  stir  a  maiden's  hair, 
Sways  huge  Oceanus  from  pole  to  pole : 
For  I  am  still  Prometheus,  and  foreknow 
In  my  wise  heart  the  end  and  doom  of  all. 

Yes,  I  am  still  Prometheus,  wiser  grown 
By  years  of  solitude — that  holds  apart 
The  past  and  future,  giving  the  soul  room 
T©  search  into  itself — and  long  commune 
With  this  eternal  silence — more  a  god 
In  my  long-suffering  and  strength  to  meet 
With  equal  front  the  direst  shafts  of  fate, 
Than  thou  in  thy  faint-hearted  despotism, 
Girt  with  thy  baby-toys  of  force  and  wrath. 
Yes,  I  am  that  Prometheus  who  brought  down 
The  light  to  man  which  thou  in  selfish  fear 
Had'st  to  thyself  usurped — his  by  sole  right, 
For  Man  hath  right  to  all  save  Tyranny — 
And  which  shall  free  him  yet  from  thy  frail 

throne. 

Tyrants  are  but  the  spawn  of  Ignorance, 
Begotten  by  the  slaves  they  trample  on, 
Who,  could  they  win  a  glimmer  of  the  light, 


22  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

And  see  that  Tyranny  is  always  weakness, 
Or  Fear  with  its  own  bosom  ill  at  ease, 
Would  laugh  away  in  scorn  the  sand-wove  chain 
Which  their  own  blindness  feigned  for  adamant. 
Wrong  ever  builds  on  quicksands,  but  the  Right 
To  the  firm  center  lays  its  moveless  base. 
The  tyrant  trembles  if  the  air  but  stirs 
The  innocent  ringlets  of  a  child's  free  hair, 
And  crouches,  when  the  thought  of  some  great 

spirit, 

With  world- wide  murmur,  like  a  rising  gale, 
Over  men's  hearts,  as  over  standing  corn, 
Rushes,  and  bends  them  to  its  own  strong  will. 
So  shall  some  thought  of  mine  yet  circle  earth 
And  puff  away  thy  crumbling  altars,  Jove. 
And,   would'st  thou  know  of  my  supreme  re 
venge, 

Poor  tyrant,  even  now  dethroned  in  heart, 
Realmless  in  soul,  as  tyrants  ever  are, 
Listen !  and  tell  me  if  this  bitter  peak, 
This  never-glutted  vulture,  and  these  chains 
Shrink  not  before  it ;  for  it  shall  befit 
A  sorrow-taught,  unconquered  Titan-heart. 
Men,  when  their  death  is  on  them,   seem  to 

stand 

On  a  precipitous  crag  that  overhangs 
The  abyss  of  doom,  and  in  that  depth  to  see, 
As  in  a  glass,  the  features  dim  and  huge 
Of  things  to  come,  the  shadows,  as  it  seems, 
Of  what  have  been.     Death  ever  fronts  the 

wise, 

Not  fearfully,  but  with  clear  promises 
Of  larger  life,  on  whose  broad  vans  upborne, 
Their  out-look  widens,  and  they  see  beyond 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  23 

The  horizon  of  the  Present  and  the  Past, 
Even  to  the  very  source  and  end  of  things. 
Such  am  I  now:  immortal  woe  hath  made 
My  heart  a  seer,  and  my  soul  a  judge 
Between    the   substance   and  the    shadow  of 

Truth. 

The  sure  supremeness  of  the  Beautiful, 
By  all  the  martyrdoms  made  doubly  sure 
Of  such  as  I  am,  this  is  my  revenge, 
Which  of  my  wrongs  builds  a  triumphal  arch, 
'Through  which  I  see  a  scepter  and  a  throne. 
The  pipings  of  glad  shepherds  on  the  hills, 
Tending  the  flocks  no  more  to  bleed  for  thee — 
The  songs  of   maidens   pressing   with   white 

feet 

The  vintage  of  thine  altars  poured  no  more — 
The  murmurous  bliss  of  lovers,  underneath 
Dim  grape-vine  bowers,   whose  rosy  bunches 

press 
Not   half   so   closely  their  warm  cheeks,   un- 

scared 
By  thoughts  of  thy  brute  lusts — the  hive-like 

hum 
Of  peaceful  commonwealths,   where  sunburnt 

Toil 

Reaps  for  itself  the  rich  earth  made  its  own, 
By  its  own  labor,  lightened  with  glad  hymns 
To  an  omnipotence  which  thy  mad  bolts 
Would  cope  with  as  a  spark  with  the  vast  sea, 
Even  the  spirit  of  free  love  and  peace, 
Duty's    sure    recompense    through    life    and 

death — 

These  are  such  harvests  as  all  master-spirits 
Reap,  haply  not  cm  earth,  but  reap  no  less 


24  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Because  their  sheaves  are  bound  by  hands  not 

theirs; 

These  are  the  bloodless  daggers  wherewithal 
They  stab  fallen  tyrants,  this  their  high  re 
venge: 

For  their  best  part  of  life  on  earth  is  when, 
Long  after  death,  prisoned  and  pent  no  more, 
Their  thoughts,  their  wild  dreams  even,  have 

become 

Part  of  the  necessary  air  men  breathe ; 
When,  like  the  moon,  herself  behind  a  cloud, 
They  shed  down  light  before  us  on  life's  sea, 
That  cheers  us  to  steer  onward  still  in  hope. 
Earth  with  her  twining  memories,  ivies  o'er 
Their  holy  sepulchres,  the  chainless  sea 
In  tempest  or  wide  calm  repeats  their  thoughts, 
The  lightning  and  the  thunder,  all  free  things, 
Have  legends  of  them  for  the  ears  of  men. 
All  other  glories  are  as  falling  stars, 
But  universal  Nature  watches  theirs ; 
Such  strength  is  won  by  love  of  human  kind. 

Not  that  I  feel  that  hunger  after  fame, 

Which  souls  of  a  half-greatness  are  beset  with ; 

But  that  the  memory  of  noble  deeds 

Cries  shame  upon  the  idle  and  the  vile, 

And  keeps  the  heart  of  Man  forever  up 

To  the  heroic  level  of  old  time. 

To  be  forgot  at  first  is  little  pain 

To  a  heart  conscious  of  such  high  intent 

As  must  be  deathless  on  the  lips  of  men; 

But,  having  been  a  name,  to  sink  and  be 

A  something  which  the  world  can  do  without, 

Which,  having  been  or  not,  would  never  change 


LOWELL'S   POEMS.  25 

The  lightest  pulse  of  fate — this  is  indeed 
A  cup  of  bitterness  the  worse  to  taste, 
And  this  thy  heart  shall  empty  to  the  dregs. 
Oblivion  is  lonelier  than  this  peak — 
Ushold  thy  destiny!    Thou  think'st  it  much 
That  I  should  brave  thee,  miserable  god! 
But  I  have  braved  a  mightier  than  thou, 
Even  the  temptings  of  this  soaring  heart 
Which  might  have  made  me,  scarcely  less  than 

thou, 

A  god  among  thy  brethren  weak  and  blind 
Scarce  less  than  thou,  a  pitiable  thing, 
To  be  down-trodden  into  darkness  soon. 
But  now  I  am  above  thee,  for  thou  art 
The  bungling  workmanship  of  fear,  the  block 
That  scarce  the  swart  Barbarian ;  but  I 
Am  what  myself  have  made,  a  nature  wise 
With  finding  in  itself  the  types  of  all, — 
With    watching    from    the  dim   verge  of  the 

time 

What  things  to  be  are  visible  in  the  learns 
Thrown  forward  on  them  from  the  luminous 

past — 

Wise  with  the  history  of  its  own  frail  heartt 
With  reverence  and  sorrow,  and  with  love  . 
Broad  as  the  world  for  freedom  and  for  man. 

Thou  and  all  strength  shall   crumble,  except 

Love, 

By  whom  and  for  whose  glory  ye  shall  cease : 
And,  when  thou  art  but  a  dim  moaning  heard 
From  out  the  pitiless  glooms  of  Chaos,  I 
Shall  be  a  power  and  a  memory, 
A  name  to  scare  all  tyrants  with,  a  light 


26  LOWELL'S   POEMS. 

Unsetting  as  the  the  pole-star,  a  great  voice 

Heard  in  the  breathless  pauses  of  the  fight 

By  truth  and  freedom  ever  waged  with  wrong, 

Clear  as  a  silver  trumpet,  to  awake 

Huge  echoes  that  from  age  to  age  live  on 

In  kindred  spirits,  giving  them  a  sense 

Of  boundless  power  from  boundless  suffering 

wrung. 

And  many  a  glazing  eye  shall  smile  to  see 
The  memory  of  my  triumph  (for  to  meet 
Wrong  with  endurance,  and  to  overcome 
The  present  with  a  heart  that  looks  beyond, 
Are  triumph),  like  a  prophet  eagle,  perch 
Upon  the  sacred  banner  of  the  right. 
Evil  springs   up,   and   flowers,   and  bears  no 

seed, 
And  feeds    the    green  earth   with    its    swift 

decay, 

Leaving  it  richer  for  the  growth  of  truth ; 
But  Good,  once  put  in  action  or  in  thought, 
Like  a  strong  oak,  doth  from  its  boughs  shed 

down 

The  ripe  germs  of  a  forest.     Thou,  weak  god, 
Shalt  fade  and  be  forgotten ;  but  this  soul, 
Fresh-living  still  in  the  serene  abyss, 
In  every  heaving  shall  partake,  that  grows 
From  heart  to  heart  among  the  sons  of  men — 
As  the  ominous  hum    before  the  earthquake 

runs 
Far  through  the  JEgean  from  roused  isle  to 

isle — 

Foreboding  wreck  to  palaces  and  shrines, 
And  mighty  rents  in  many  a  cavernous  error 


LOWELL'S   POEMS.  27 

That   darkens   the   free   light  to  man: — This 

heart 

Unscarred  by  the  grim  vulture,  as  the  truth 
Grows  but  more  lovely  'neath  the  beaks  and 

claws 

Of  Harpies  blind  that  fain  would  soil  it,  shall 
In  all  the  throbbing  exultations  share 
That  wait  on  freedom's  triumphs,  and  in  all 
The  glorious  agonies  of  martyr-spirits — 
Sharp    lightning-throes    to   split    the    jagged 

clouds 

That  veil  the  future,  showing  them  the  end — 
Pain's  thorny  crown  for  constancy  and  truth, 
Girding  the  temples  like  a  wreath  of  stars. 
This  is  a  thought,  that,  like  the  fable  laurel, 
Makes  my  faith  thunder-proof,  and  thy  dread 

bolts 

Fall  on  me  like  the  silent  flakes  of  snow 
On  the  hoar  brows  of  an  aged  Caucasus: 
But,  O  thought  far  more  blissful,  they  can 

rend 
This  cloud  of  flesh,  and  make  my  soul  a  star ! 

Unleash  thy  crouching  thunders  now,  O  Jove ! 
Free  this  high  heart  which,   a    poor  captive 

long, 
Doth  knock  to  be  let  forth,  this  heart  which 

still, 

In  its  invincible  manhood,  overtops 
Thy  puny  godship  as  this  mountain  doth 
The  pines  that  moss  its  roots.     O  even  now, 
While  from  my  peak  of  suffering  I  look  down, 
Beholding  with  a  far-spread  gush  of  hope 
The  sunrise  of  that  Beauty  in  whose  face, 


23  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Shone  all  around  with  love,  no  man  shall  look 
But  straightway  like  a  god  he  is  uplift 
Unto  the  throne  long  empty  for  his  sake, 
And  clearly  oft  foreshadowed  in  wide  dreams 
By  his  free  inward  nature,  which  nor  thou, 
Nor  any  anarch  after  thee,  can  bind 
From  working  its  great  doom — now,  now  set 

free 

This  essence,  not  to  die,  but  to  become 
Part  of  that  awful  Presence  which  doth  haunt 
The  palaces  of  tyrants,  to  scare  off, 
With  its  grim  eyes  and  fearful  .whisperings 
And  hideous  sense  of  utter  loneliness, 
All  hope  of  safety,  all  desire  of  peace, 
All    but    the   loathed    forefeelings    of    blank 

death — 

Part  of  that  spirit  which  doth  ever  brood 
In  patient  calm  on  the  unpilfered  nest 
Of  man's  deep  heart,    till    mighty    thoughts 

grow  fledged 

To  sail  with  darkening  shadow  o'er  the  world. 
Until  they  swoop,  and  their  pale  quarry  make 
Of  some  o'erbloated  wrong — that  spirit  which 
Scatters  great  hopes  in  the  seed- field  of  man, 
Like  acorns  among  grain,  to  grow  and  be 
A  roof  of  freedom  in  all  coming  time. 

But  no,  this  cannot  be ;  for  ages  yet, 

In  solitude  unbroken,  shall  I  hear 

The  angry  Caspian  to  the  Euxine  shout, 

And  Euxine  answer  with  a  muffled  roar, 

On  either  side  storming  the  giant  walls 

Of  Caucasus  with  leagues  of  climbing  foam, 


LOWELL'S   POEMS.  29 

(Less,  from  my  height,  than  flakes  of  downy 

snow), 

That  draw  back  baffled  but  to  hurl  again, 
Snatched  up  in  wrath  and  horrible  turmoil, 
Mountain  on  mountain,  as  the  Titans  erst, 
My  brethren,  scaling  the  high  seat  of  Jove, 
Heaved  Pelion  upon  Ossa's  shoulders  broad, 
In  vain  emprise.     The  moon  will  come  and  go 
With  her  monotonous  vicissitudes ; 
Once  beautiful,  when  I  was  free  to  walk 
Among  my  fellows  and  to  interchange 
The  influence  benign  of  loving  eyes, 
But  now  by  aged  use  grown  wearisome ; — 
False  thought !    most  false !    for  how  cciild   I 

endure 

These  crawling  centuries  of  lonely  woe 
Unshamed  by  weak  complaining,  but  for  thee, 
Loneliest,  save  me,  of  all  created  things, 
Mild-eyed  Astarte,  my  best  comforter, 
With  the  pale  smile  of  sad  benignity? 
Year  after  year  will  pass  away  and  seem 
To  me,  in  mine  eternal  agony, 
But  as  the  shadows  of  dumb  summer-clouds, 
Which    I   have   watched    so    often   darkening 

o'er 

The  vast  Sarmatian  plain,  league- wide  at  first, 
But,  with  still  swiftness,  lessening  on  and  on 
Till  cloud  and  shadow  meet  and  mingle  where 
The  gray  horizon  fades  into  the  sky, 
Far,  far  to  northward.     Yes,  for  ages  yet 
Must  I  lie  here  upon  my  altar  huge, 
A  sacrifice  for  man.     Sorrow  will  be, 
As  it  hath  been,  his  portion ;  endless  doom, 
While  the  immortal  with  the  mortal  linked 


30  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Dreams  of   its  wings    and  pines  for  what  it 

dreams 

With  upward  yearn  unceasing.     Better  so : 
For  wisdom  is  meek  sorrow's  patient  child, 
And  empire  over  self,  and  all  the  deep 
Strong  charities  that  make  men  seem  like  gods ; 
And  love,  that  makes  them  be  gods,  from  her 

breasts 
Sucks  in  the  milk  that  makes  mankind   one 

blood. 

Good  never  comes  unmixed,  or  so  it  seems. 
Having  two  faces,  as  some  images 
Are  carved,  of  foolish  gods;  one  face  is  ill, 
But  one  heart  lies  beneath,  and  that  is  good, 
As  are  all  hearts,  when  we  explore  their  depths. 
Therefore,  great  heart,  bear  up!  thou  art  but 

type 

Of  what  all  lofty  spirits  endure,  that  fain 
Would  win  men  back  to  strength  and  peace 

through  love : 

Each  hath  his  lonely  peak,  and  on  each  heart 
Envy,  or  scorn,  or  hatred,  tears  lifelong 
With  vulture  beak ;  yet  the  high  soul  is  left, 
And  faith,  which  is  but  hope  grown  wise,  and 

love, 
And  patience  which  at  last  shall  overcome. 

Cambridge,  Mass.,  June,  1843. 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  31 


ROSALINE. 

Thou  look'd'st  on  me  all  yesternight, 
Thine  eyes  were  blue,  thy  hair  was  bright 
As  when  we  murmured  our  trothplight 
Beneath  the  thick  stars,  Rosaline ! 
Thy  hair  was  braided  on  thy  head 
As  on  the  day  we  two  were  wed, 
Mine  eyes  scarce  knew  if  thou  wert  dead— 
But  my  shrunk  heart  knew,  Rosaline ! 

The  deathwatch  tickt  behind  the  wall, 
The  blackness  rustled  like  a  pall, 
The  moaning  wind  did  rise  and  fall 
Among  the  bleak  pines,  Rosaline ! 
My  heart  beat  thickly  in  mine  ears; 
The  lids  may  shut  out  fleshly  fears, 
But  still  the  spirit  sees  and  hears, 
Its  eyes  are  lidless,  Rosaline! 

A  wildness  rushing  suddenly, 

A  knowing  some  ill  shape  is  nigh, 

A  wish  for  death,  a  fear  to  die — 

Is  not  this  vengeance,  Rosaline! 

A  loneliness  that  is  not  lone, 

A  love  quite  withered  up  and  gone, 

A  strong  soul  trampled  from  its  throne — 

What  would'st  thou  further,  Rosaline ! 


32  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

'Tis  lone  such  moonless  nights  as  these, 
Strange  sounds  are  out  upon  the  breeze, 
And  the  leaves  shiver  in  the  trees, 
And  then  thou  comest,  Rosaline! 
I  seem  to  hear  the  mourners  go, 
With  long  black  garments  trailing  slow, 
And  plumes  anodding  to  and  fro, 
As  once  I  heard  them,  Rosaline! 

Thy  shroud  it  is  of  snowy  white, 
And,  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
Thou  standest  moveless  and  upright, 
Gazing  upon  me,  Rosaline ! 
There  is  no  sorrow  in  thine  eyes, 
But  evermore  that  meek  surprise — 
Oh,  God !  her  gentle  spirit  tries 
To  deem  me  guiltless,  Rosaline ! 

Above  thy  grave  the  Robin  sings, 

And  swarms  of  bright  and  happy  things 

Flit  all  about  with  sunlit     ings — 

But  I  am  cheerless,  Rosaline! 

The  violets  on  the  hillock  toss, 

The  gravestone  is  o'ergrown  with  moss, 

For  nature  feels  not  any  loss — 

But  I  am  cheerless,  Rosaline! 

Ah !  why  wert  thou  so  lowly  bred? 
Why  was  my  pride  galled  on  to  wed 
Her  who  brought  lands  and  gold  instead 
Of  thy  heart's  treasure,  Rosaline! 
Why  did  I  fear  to  let  thee  stay 
To  look  on  me  and  pass  away 
Forgivingly,  as  in  its  May, 
A  broken  flov/er,  Rosaline ! 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  33 

I  thought  not,  when  my  dagger  strook, 

Of  thy  blue  eyes ;  I  could  not  brook 

The  past  all  pleading  in  one  look 

Of  utter  sorrow,  Rosaline ! 

I  did  not  know  when  thou  wert  dead : 

A  blackbird  whistling  overhead 

Thrilled  through  my  brain ;  I  would  have  fled 

But  dared  not  leave  thee,  Rosaline! 

A  low,  low  moan,  a  light  twig  stirred 

By  the  upspringing  of  a  bird, 

A  drip  of  blood — were  all  I  heard — 

Then  deathly  stillness,  Rosaline! 

The  sun  rolled  down,  and  very  soon, 

Like  a  great  fire,  the  awful  moon 

Rose,  stained  with  blood,  and  then  a  swoon 

Crept  chilly  o'er  me,  Rosaline! 

The  stars  came  out;  and,  one  by  one, 
Each  angel  from  his  silver  throne 
Looked  down  and  saw  what  I  had  done : 
I  dared  not  hide  me,  Rosaline ! 
I  crouched ;  I  feared  thy  corpse  would  cry 
Against  me  to  God's  quiet  sky, 
I,  thought  I  saw  the  blue  lips  try 
To  utter  something,  Rosaline! 

I  waited  with  a  maddened  grin 

To  hear  that  voice  all  icy  thin 

Slide  forth  and  tell  my  deadly  sin 

To  hell  and  Heaven,  Rosaline! 

But  no  voice  came,  and  then  it  seemed 

That  if  the  very  corpse  had  screamed 

The  sound  like  sunshine  glad  had  streamed 

Through  that  dark  stillness,  Rosaline! 

3   Lowell 


34  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Dreams  of  old  quiet  glimmered  by, 
And  faces  loved  in  infancy 
Came  and  looked  on  me  mournfully, 
Till  my  heart  melted,  Rosaline ! 
I  saw  my  mother's  dying  bed, 
I  heard  her  bless  me,  and  I  shed 
Cool  tears — but  lo !  the  ghastly  dead 
Stared  me  to  madness,  Rosaline ! 

And  then  amid  the  silent  night 

I  screamed  with  horrible  delight, 

And  in  my  brain  an  awful  light 

Did  seem  to  crackle,  Rosaline ! 

It  is  my  curse!  sweet  mem'ries  fall 

From  me  like  snow — and  only  all 

Of  that  one  night,  like  cold  worms  crawl 

My  doomed  heart  over,  Rosaline ! 

Thine  eyes  are  shut :  they  nevermore 
Will  leap  thy  gentle  words  before 
To  tell  the  secret  o'er  and  o'er 
Thou  could'st  not  smother,  Rosaline! 
Thine  eyes  are  shut:  they  will  not  shine 
With  happy  tears,  or,  through  the  vine 
That  hid  thy  casement,  beam  on  mine 
Sunfull  with  gladness,  Rosaline! 

Thy  voice  I  nevermore  shall  hear, 
Which  in  old  times  did  seem  so  dear, 
That,  ere  it  trembled  in  mine  ear, 
My  quick  heart  heard  it,  Rosaline ! 
Would  I  might  die !     I  were  as  well, 
Ay,  better,  at  my  home  in  Hell, 
To  set  for  aye  a  burning  spell 
'Twixt  me  and  memory,  Rosaline! 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  35 

Why  wilt  them  haunt  me  with  thine  eyes, 
Wherein  such  blessed  memories, 
Such  pitying  forgiveness  lies, 
Than  hate  more  bitter,  Rosaline! 
Woe  's  me!  I  know  that  love  so  high 
As  thine,  true  soul,  could  never  die, 
And  with  mean  clay  in  church-yard  lie — 
Would  God  it  were  so,  Rosaline ! 


SONNET. 

If  some  small  savor  creep  into  my  rhyme 
Of  the  old  poets,  if  some  words  I  use, 
Neglected  long,  which  have  the  lusty  thews 
Of  that  gold-haired  and  earnest-hearted  time, 
Whose  loving  joy  and  sorrow  all  sublime 
Have  given  our  tongue  its  starry  eminence, — 
It  is  not  pride,  God  knows,  but  reverence 
Which  hath  grown  in  me  since  my  childhood's 

prime ; 

Wherein  I  feel  that  my  poor  lyre  is  strung 
With  soul-strings  like  to  theirs,  and  that  I  have 
,  No  right  to  muse  their  holy  graves  among, 
If  I  can  be  a  custom-fettered  slave, 
And,  in  mine  own  true  spirit,  am  not  brave 
To  speak  what  rusheth  upward  to  my  tongue. 


36  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 


A  GLANCE-  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN. 

We  see  but  half  the  causes  of  our  deeds, 
Seeking  them  wholly  in  the  outer  life, 
And  heedless  of  the  encircling  spiri>world 
Which,  though  unseen,  is  felt,  and  nows  in  us 
All  germs  of  pure  and  world- wide  purposes. 
From  one  stage  of  our  being  to  the  next 
We  pass  unconscious  o'er  a  slender  bridge, 
The  momentary  work  of  unseen  hands, 
Which  crumbles  down  behind  us ;  looking  back, 
We  see  the  other  shore,  the  gulf  between, 
And,  marveling  how  we  won  to  where  we  stand, 
Content  ourselves  to  call  the  builder  Chance. 
We  trace  the  wisdom  to  the  apple's  fall, 
Not  to  the  soul  of  Newton,  ripe  with  all 
The  hoarded  thoughtfulness  of  earnest  years, 
And  waiting  but  one  ray  of  sunlight  more 
To  blossom  fully. 

But  whence  came  that  ray? 
We  call  our  sorrows  destiny,  but  ought 
Rather  to  name  our  high  successes  so. 
Only  the  instincts  of  great  souls  are  Fate, 
And  have  predestined  sway:  all  other  things, 
Except  by  leave  of  us,  could  never  be. 
For  Destiny  is  but  the  breath  of  God 
Still  moving  in  us,  the  last  fragment  left 
Of  our  unfallen  nature,  waking  oft 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  37 

Within  our  thought  to  beckon  us  beyond 
The  narrow  circle  of  the  seen  and  known, 
And  always  tending  to  a  noble  end, 
As  all  things  must  that  overrule  the  soul, 
And  for  a  space  unseat  the  helmsman,  Will. 
The  fate  of  England  and  of  freedom  once 
Seemed  wavering  in  the  heart  of  one   plain 

man: 

One  step  of  his,  and  the  great  dial-hand 
That  marks  the  destined  progress  of  the  world 
In  the  eternal  round  from  wisdom  on 
To  higher  wisdom,  had  been  made  to  pause 
A  hundred  years.     That  step  he  did  not  take — 
He  knew  not  why,  nor  we,  but  only  God — 
And  lived  to  make  his  simple  oaken  chair 
More  terrible  and  grandly  beautiful, 
More  full  of  majesty,  than  any  throne, 
Before  or  after,  of  a  British  king. 

Upon  the  pier  stood  two  stern-visaged  men, 
Looking  to  where  a  little  craft  lay  moored, 
Swayed  by  the  lazy  current  of  the  Thames 
Which  weltered  by  in  muddy  listlessness. 
Grave  men  they  were,  and  battlings  of  fierce 

thought 

Had  scared  away  all  softness  from  their  brows, 
And  ploughed  rough  furrows  there  before  their 

time. 

Care,  not  of  self,  but  of  the  common  weal, 
Had  robbed  their  eyes  of  youth,  and  left  instead 
A  look  of  patient  power  and  iron  will, 
And  something  fiercer,  too,   that  gave  broad 

hint 
Of  the  plain  weapons  girded  at  their  sides. 


38  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

The  younger  had  an  aspect  of  command- 
Not  such  as  trickles  down,  a  slender  stream, 
In  the  shrunk  channel  of  a  great  descent — 
But  such  as  lies  entowered  in  heart  and  head, 
And  an  arm  prompt  to  do  the  'hests  of  both. 
His  was  a  brow  where  gold  were  out  of  place, 
And  yet  it  seemed  right  worthy  of  a  crown 
(Though  he  despised  such),  were  it  only  made 
Of  iron,  or  some  serviceable  stuff 
That  would  have  matched  his  sinewy  brown 

face. 

The  elder,  although  such  he  hardly  seemed 
(Care  makes  so  little  of  some  five  short  years), 
Bore  a  clear,  honest  face,  where  scholarship 
Had     mildened     somewhat     of    its    rougher 

strength, 

To  sober  courage,  such  as  best  befits 
The  unsullied  temper  of  a  well-taught  mind, 
Yet  left  it  so  as  one  could  plainly  guess 
The  pent  volcano  smouldering  underneath. 
He  spoke :  the  other,  hearing,  kept  his  gaze 
Still  fixed,  as  on  some  problem  in  the  sky. 

"O,  Cromwell,  we  are  fallen  on  evil  times! 
There  was  a  day  when  England  had  wide  room 
For  honest  men  as  well  as  foolish  kings ; 
But  now  the  uneasy  stomach  of  the  time 
Turns  squeamish  at  them  both.     Therefore, 

let  us 

Seek  out  that  savage  clime  where  men  as  yet 
Are  free :  there  sleeps  the  vessel  on  the  tide, 
Her  languid  sails  but  drooping  for  the  wind; 
All  things  are  fitly  cared  for,  and  the  Lord 
Will  watch  as  kindly  o'er  the  Exodus 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  39 

Of  us  His  servants  now,  as  in  old  time. 
We  have  no  cloud  or  fire,  and  haply  we 
May  not  pass    dryshod    through    the    ocean- 
stream  ; 

But,  saved  or  lost,  all  things  are  in  His  hand.  " 
So  spake  he,  and  meantime  the  other  stood 
With  wide,  grey  eyes  still  reading  the  blank 

air, 

As  if  upon  the  sky's  blue  wall  he  saw 
Some  mystic  sentence  written  by  a  hand 
Such  as  of  old  did  scare  the  Assyrian  king, 
Girt  with  his  satraps  in  the  blazing  feast. 

"Hampden,  a  moment  since,  my  purpose  was 
To  fly  with  thee— for  I  will  call  it  flight, 
Nor  flatter  it  with  any  smoother  name — 
But  something  in  me  bids  me  not  to  go; 
And  I  am  one,  thou  knowest,  who,  ttnscared 
By  what  the  weak  deem  omens,  yet  give  heed 
And  reverence  due  to  whatsoe'er  my  soul 
Whispers  of  warning  to  the  inner  ear. 
Why  should  we  fly?  Nay,  why  not  rather  stay 
And  rear  again  our  Zion's  crumbled  walls, 
Not  as  of  old  the  walls  of  Thebes  were  built 
By  minstrel  twanging,  but,  if  need  should  be, 
With  the  more  potent  music  of  our  swords? 
Think 'st  thou  that  score  of  men  beyond  the 

sea 
Claim  more  God's  care  than  all  of  England 

here? 

No :  when  He  moves  His  arm,  it  is  to  aid 
Whole  peoples,  heedless  if  a  few  be  crushed, 
As  some  are  ever  when  the  destiny 
Of  man  takes  one  stride  onward  nearer  home 


40  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Believe  it,  'tis  the  mass  of  men  He  loves, 
And  where  there  is  most  sorrow  and  most  want, 
Where  the  high  heart  of  man  is  trodden  down 
The  most,  'tis  not  because  He  hides  His  face 
From  them  in   wrath,   as    purblind    teachers 

prate 

Not  so :  there  most  is  He,  for  there  is  He 
Most  needed.     Men  who  seek  for  Fate  abroad 
Are  not  so  near  His  heart  as  they  who  dare 
Frankly  to  face  her  where  she  faces  them, 
On  their  own  threshold,  where  their  souls  are 

strong 

To  grapple  with  and  throw  her,  as  I  once, 
Being  yet  a  boy,  did  throw  this  puny  king, 
Who  now  has  grown  so  dotard  as  to  deem 
That  he  can  wrestle  with  an  angry  realm, 
And  throw   the  brawned    Antaeus    of    men's 

rights. 
No,  Hampden ;  they  have  half-way  conquered 

Fate 

Who  go  half-way  to  meet  her — as  will  I. 
Freedom  hath  yet  a  work  for  me  to  do ; 
So  speaks  that  inward  voice  which  never  yet 
Spake  falsely,  when  it  urged  the  spirit  on 
To  noble  deeds  for  country  and  mankind. 

"What  should  we  do  in  that  small  colony 
Of  pinched  fanatics,  who  would  rather  choose 
Freedom  to  clip  an  inch  more  from  their  hair 
Than  the  great  chance  of  setting  England  free? 
Not  there  amid  the  stormy  wilderness 
Should  we  learn  wisdom ;  or,  if  learned,  what 

room 
To  put  it  into  act — else  worse  than  naught? 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  41 

We  learn  our  souls  more,  tossing  for  an  hour 

Upon  this  huge  and  ever  vexed  sea 

Of  human  thought,   where  kingdoms    go    to 

wreck 

Like  fragile  bubbles  yonder  in  the  stream, 
Than  in  a  cycle  of  New  England  sloth, 
Broke  only  by  some  petty  Indian  war, 
Or  quarrel  for  a  letter,  more  or  less, 
In  some  hard  word,  which,  spelt  in  either  way, 
Not  their  most  learned  clerks  can  understand. 
New  times  demand  new  measures  and    new 

men; 

The  world  advances,  and  in  time  outgrows 
The  laws  that  in  our  father's  day  were  best; 
And,  doubtless,  after  us,  some  purer  scheme 
Will  be  shaped  out  by  wiser  men  than  we, 
Made  wiser  by  the  steady  growth  of  truth. 
We  cannot  bring  Utopia  at  once; 
But  better  almost  be  at  work  in  sin 
Than  in  a  brute  inaction  browse  and  sleep. 
No  man  is  born  into  the  world  whose  work 
Is  not  born  with  him ;  there  is  always  work, 
And  tools  to  work  withal,  for  those  who  will ; 
And  blessed  are  the  horny  hands  of  toil ! 
The  busy  world  shoves  angrily  aside 
The  man  who  stands  with  arms  akimbo  set, 
Until  occasion  tells  him  what  to  do; 
And  he  who  waits  to  have  his  task  marked  out, 
Shall  die  and  leave  his  errand  unfulfilled. 
Our  time  is  one  that  calls  for  earnest  deeds. 
Reason  and  Government,  like  two  broad  seas, 
Yearn  for  each  other  with  outstretched  arms 
Across  this  narrow  isthmus  of  the  throne, 
And  roll  their  white  surf  higher  every  day. 


42  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

The  field  lies  wide  before  us,  where  to  reap 
The  easy  harvest  of  a  deathless  name, 
Though  with  no  better  sickles  than  our  swords, 
My  soul  is  not  a  palace  of  the  past, 
Where  outworn  creeds,  like  Rome's  grey  sen 
ate,  quake, 

Hearing  afar  the  Vandal's  trumpet  hoarse, 
That  shakes  old  systems  with  a  thunder-fit. 
The  time  is  ripe,  and  rotten-ripe,  for  change ; 
Then  let  it  come:  I  have  no  dread  of  what 
Is  called  by  the  instinct  of  mankind. 
Nor  think  I  that  God's  world  would  fall  apart 
Because  we  tear  a  parchment  more  or  less. 
Truth  is  eternal,  but  her  effluence, 
With  endless  change,  is  fitted  to  the  hour ; 
Her  mirror  is  turned  forward,  to  reflect 
The  promise  of  the  future,  not  the  past. 
I  do  not  fear  to  follow  out  the  truth, 
Albeit  along  the  precipice's  edge. 
Let  us  speak  plain:  there  is  more   force  in 

names 

Than  most  men  dream  of;  and  a  lie  may  keep 
Its  throne  a  whole  age  longer,  if  it  skulk 
Behind  the  shield  of  some  fair-seeming  name. 
Let  us  call  tyrants  tyrants,  and  maintain 
That  only  freedom  comes  by  grace  of  God, 
And  all  that  comes  not  by  His  grace  must  fall ; 
For  men  in  earnest  have  no  time  to  waste 
In  patching  fig-leaves  for  the  naked  truth. 

"I  will  have  one  more  grapple  with  the  man 
Charles  Stuart:  whom  the  boy  o'ercame, 
The  man  stands  not  in  awe  of.     I  perchance 
Am  one  raised  up  by  the  Almighty  arm 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  43 

To  witness  some  great  truth  to  all  the  world. 
Souls  destined  to  o'erleap  the  vulgar  lot, 
And  mould  the  world  unto  the  scheme  of  God, 
Have  a  foreconsciousness  of  their  high  doom, 
As  men  are  known  to  shiver  at  the  heart, 
When  the  cold  shadow  of  some  coming  ill 
Creeps  slowly  o'er  their  spirits  unawares : 
Hath  Good  less  power  of  prophecy  than  111? 
How  else  could  men  whom  God  hath  called  to 

sway 
Earth's  rudder,  and  to  steer  the  barque   of 

Truth, 

Beating  against  the  wind  toward  her  port, 
Bear  all  the  mean  and  buzzing  grievances, 
The  petty  martyrdoms  wherewith  Sin  strives 
To  weary  out  the  tethered  hope  of  Faith, 
The  sneers,  the  unrecognizing  look  of  friends, 
Who   worship  the   dead   corpse  of    old   king 

Custom, 

Where  it  doth  lie  in  state  within  the  Church, 
Striving  to  cover  up  the  mighty  ocean 
With  a  man's  palm,  and  making  even  the  truth 
Lie  for  them,  holding  up  the  glass  reversed, 
To  make  the  hope  of  man  seem  further  off? 
My  God!  when  I  read  o'er  the  bitter  lives 
Of  men  whose   eager  hearts  were  quite  too 

great 
To  beat  beneath  the   cramped   mode  of  the 

day, 
And  see  them  mocked  at  by  the  world  they 

love, 

Haggling  with  prejudice  for  pennyworths 
Of  that  reform  which  their  hard  toil  will  make 
The  common  birthright  of  the  age  to  come ; — 


44  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

When  I  see  this,  spite  of  my  faith  in  God, 
I  marvel  how  their  hearts  bear  up  so  long ; 
Nor  could  they,  but  for  this  same  prophecy, 
This  inward  feeling  of  the  glorious  end. 

"Deem  me  not  fond;  but  in  my  warmer  youth, 
Ere  my  heart's  bloom  was  soiled  and  brushed 

away, 

I  had  got  dreams  of  mighty  things  to  come ; 
Of  conquest ;  whether  by  the  sword  or  pen, 
I  knew  not ;  but  some  conquest  I  would  have, 
Or  else  swift  death :  now,  wiser  grown  in  years, 
I  find  youth's  dreams  are  but  the  flutterings 
Of  those  strong  wings  whereon  the  soul  shall 

soar 

In  after  time  to  win  a  starry  throne ; 
And  therefore  cherish  them,  for  they  were  lots 
Which  I,  a  boy,  cast  in  the  helm  of  Fate. 
Nor  will   I  draw  them,  since  a  man's  right 

hand, 

A  right  hand  guided  by  an  earnest  soul, 
With  a  true  instinct,  takes  the  golden  prize 
From  out  a  thousand  blanks.    What  men  call 

luck, 

Is  the  prerogative  of  valiant  souls, 
The  fealty  life  pays  its  rightful  kings. 
The  helm  is  shaking  now,  and  I  will  stay 
To  pluck  my  lot  forth ;  it  were  sin  to  flee ! 

So  they  two  turned  together;  one  to  die 
Fighting  for  freedom  on  that  bloody  field ; 
The  other,  far  more  happy,  to  become 
A  name  earth  wears  forever  next  her  heart; 
One  of  the  few  that  have  a  right  to  rank 


LOWELL'S   POEMS.  45 

With  the  true  Makers ;  for  his  spirit  wrought 
Order  from  Chaos ;  proved  that  right  divine 
Dwelt  only  in  the  excellence  of  Truth ; 
And  far  within  old  Darkness'  hostile  lines 
Advanced  and  pitched   the  shining  tents  of 

Light. 

Nor  shall  the  grateful  muse  forget  to  tell, 
That — not  the  least  among  his  many  claims 
To  deathless  honor — he  was  Milton's  friend, 
A  man  not  second  among  those  who  lived 
To  show  us  that  the  poet's  lyre  demands 
An  arm  of  tougher  sinew  than  the  sword. 


A  SONG. 

Violet !  sweet  violet ! 
Thine  eyes  are  full  of  tears; 
Are  they  wet 
Even  yet 

With  the  thought  of  other  years, 
Or  with  gladness  are  they  full, 
For  the  night  so  beautiful, 
And  longing  for  those  far-off  spheres? 

Loved  one  of  my  youth  thou  wast, 
Of  my  merry  youth, 
And  I  see, 
Tearfully, 

All  the  fair  and  sunny  past, 
All  its  openness  and  truth, 
Ever  fresh  and  green  in  thee 
As  the  moss  is  in  the  sea. 


46  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Thy  little  heart,  that  hath  with  loye 
Grown  colored  like  the  sky  above, 
On  which  thou  lookest  ever, — 
Can  it  know 
All  the  woe 

Of  hope  for  what  returneth  never, 
All  the  sorrow  and  the  longing 
To  those  hearts  of  ours  belonging! 

Out  on  it!  no  foolish  pining 

For  the  sky 

Dims  thine  eye, 

Or  for  the  stars  so  calmly  shining; 
Like  thee  let  this  soul  of  mine 
Take  hue  from  that  wherefor  I  long, 
Self-stayed  and  high,  serene  and  strong, 
Not  satisfied  with  hoping — but  divine. 

Violet'  dear  violet! 

Thy  blue  eyes  are  only  wet 
With  joy  and  love  of  Him  who  sent  thee, 
And  for  the  fulfilling  sense 
Of  that  glad  obedience 
Which  made  thee  all  which  Nature  meant  thee! 


THE  MOON. 

My  soul  was  like  the  sea 
Before  the  moon  was  made ; 
Moaning  in  vague  immensity, 
Of  its  own  strength  afraid, 
Unrestful  and  unstaid. 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  47 

Through  every  rift  it  foamed  in  vain 

About  its  earthly  prison, 
Seeking  some  unknown  thing  in  pain 
And  sinking  restless  back  again, 

For  yet  no  moon  had  risen : 
Its  only  voice  a  vast  dumb  moan 
Of  utterless  anguish  speaking, 
It  lay  unhopefully  alone 
And  lived  but  an  aimless  seeking. 

So  was  my  soul :  but  when  't  was  full 

Of  unrest  to  o'erloading, 
A  voice  of  something  beautiful 

Whispered  a  dim  foreboding, 
And  yet  so  soft,  so  sweet,  so  low, 
It  had  not  more  of  joy  than  woe : 
And,  as  the  sea  doth  oft  lie  still, 

Making  his  waters  meet, 
As  if  by  an  unconscious  will, 

For  the  moon's  silver  feet, 
Like  some  serne,  unwinking  eye 
That  waits  a  certain  destiny, 
So  lay  my  soul  within  mine  eyes 
When  thou  its  sovereign  moon  didst  rise. 

And  now,  howe'er  its  waves  above 

May  toss  and  seem  uneaseful, 
One  strong,  eternal  law  of  love 

With  guidance  sure  and  peaceful, 
As  calm  and  natural  as  breath 
Moves  its  great  deeps  through  Life  and  Death. 


48  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 


THE  FATHERLAND. 

Where  is  the  true  man's  fatherland? 

Is  it  where  he  by  chance  is  born? 

Doth  not  the  free-winged  spirit  scorn 
In  such  pent  borders  to  be  spanned? 

Oh  yes,  his  fatherland  must  be 

As  the  blue  heavens  wide  and  free ! 

Is  it  alone  where  freedom  is, 
Where  God  is  God  and  man  is  man? 
Doth  he  not  claim  a  broader  span 

For  the  soul's  love  of  home  than  this? 
Oh  yes!  his  fatherland  must  be 
As  the  blue  heavens  wide  and  free ! 

Where'er  a  human  heart  doth  wear 
Joy's  myrtle  wreath,  or  sorrow's  gyves, 
Where'er  a  human  spirit  strives 

After  a  life  more  pure  and  fair, 

There  is  the  true  man's  birthplace  grand! 
His  is  a  world-wide  fatherland ! 

Where'er  a  single  slave  doth  pine, 

Where'er  one  man  may  help  another — 
Thank  God  for  such  a  birthright,  brother! 

That  spot  of  earth  is  thine  and  mine ; 

There  is  the  true  man's  birthplace  grand! 
His  is  a  world- wide  fatherland ! 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  49 


A  PARABLE. 

Worn  and  footsore  was  the  Prophet 
When  he  reached  the  holy  hill ; 

"God  has  left  the  earth,"  he  murmured, 
"Here  his  presence  lingers  still. 

"God  of  all  the  olden  prophets, 
Wilt  thou  talk  with  me  no  more? 

Have  I  not  as  truly  loved  thee 
As  thy  chosen  ones  of  yore? 

4 '  Hear  me,  guider  of  my  fathers, 
Lo,  an  humble  heart  is  mine ; 

By  thy  mercy  I  beseech  thee, 
Grant  thy  servant  but  a  sign!" 

Bowing  then  his  head,  he  listened 

For  an  answer  to  his  prayer; 
No  loud  burst  of  thunder  followed, 

Not  a  murmur  stirred  the  air: 

But  the  tuft  of  moss  before  him 

Opened  while  he  waited  yet, 
And  from  out  the  rock's  hard  bosom 

Sprang  a  tender  violet. 

"God!  I  thank  thee,"  said  the  Prophet, 
"Hard  of  heart  and  blind  was  I, 

4    Lowell 


LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Looking  to  the  holy  mountain 
For  the  gift  of  prophecy. 

"Still  thou  speakest  with  thy  children 

Freely  as  in  Eld  sublime, 
Humbleness  and  love  and  patience 

Give  dominion  over  Time. 

"Had  I  trusted  in  my  nature, 
And  had  faith  in  lowly  things, 

Thou  thyself  wouldst  then  have  sought  me, 
And  set  free  my  spirit's  wings. 

"But  I  looked  for  signs  and  wonders 
That  o'er  men  should  give  me  sway; 

Thirsting  to  be  more  than  mortal, 
I  was  even  less  than  clay. 

"Ere  I  entered  on  my  journey, 

As  I  girt  my  loins  to  start, 
Ran  to  me  my  little  daughter, 

The  beloved  of  my  heart ; 

"In  her  hand  she  held  a  flower, 

Like  to  this  as  like  may  be, 
Which  beside  my  very  threshold 

She  had  plucked  and  brought  to  me. " 


LOWELL'S   POEMS.  51 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FRIEND'S  CHILD. 

Death  never  came  so  nigh  to  me  before, 
Nor  showed  me  his  mild  face :  Oft  I  had  mused 
Of  calm  and  peace  and  deep  forgetfulness, 
Of  folded  hands,  closed  eyes,  and  heart  at  rest, 
And  slumber  sound  beneath  a  flowery  turf, 
Of  faults  forgotten,  and  an  inner  place 
Kept  sacred  for  us  in  the  heart  of  friends; 
But  these  were  idle  fancies  satisfied 
With  the  mere  husk  of  this  great  Mystery, 
And  dwelling  in  the  outward  shows  of  things. 
Heaven  is  not  mounted  to  on  wings  of  dreams, 
Nor  doth  the  unthankful  happiness  of  youth 
Aim  thitherward,   but    floats  from   bloom   to 

bloom, 

With  earth's  warm  patch  of  sunshine  well  con 
tent: 

'Tis  sorrow  builds  the  shining  ladder  up 
Whose  golden  rounds  are  our  calamities, 
Whereon  our  firm  feet  planting,  nearer  God 
The  spirit  climbs,  and  hath  its  eyes  unsealed. 
True  is  it  that  Death's  face  seems  stern  and 

cold, 

When  he  is  sent  to  summon  those  we  love, 
But  all  God's  angels  come  to  us  disguised, 
Sorrow  and  sickness,  poverty  and  death, 
One  after  other  lift  their  frowning  masks, 
And  we  behold  the  seraph's  face  beneath, 


52  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

All  radiant  with  the  glory  and  the  calm 
Of  having  looked  upon  the  smile  of  God. 
With  every  anguish  of  our  earthly  past 
The    spirit's    sight  grows  clearer;    this  was 

meant 
When  Jesus  touched  the  blind  man's  lids  with 

clay. 

Life  is  the  jailor,  Death  the  angel  sent 
To  draw  the  unwilling  bolts  and  set  us  free. 
He  flings  not  open  the  ivory  gate  of  Rest — 
Only  the  fallen  spirit  knocks  at  that — 
But  to  benigner  regions  beckons  us, 
To  destines  of  more  rewarded  toil. 

In  the  hushed  chamber,  sitting  by  the  dead, 
It  grates  on  us  to,  hear  the  flood  of  life 
Whirl  rustling  onward,  senseless  of  our  loss. 
The  bee  hums  on ;  around  the  blossomed  vine 
Whirrs  the  light  humming-bird;    the  cricket 

chirps ; 

The  locust's  shrill  alarum  stings  the  ear; 
Hard  by,   the  cock  shouts  lustily;  from  farm 

to  farm, 

His  cheery  brothers,  telling  of  the  sun, 
Answer,  till  far  away  the  joyance  dies ; 
We  never  knew  before  how  God  had  filled 
The  summer  air  with  happy  living  sounds ; 
All  around  us  seems  an  overplus  of  life, 
And  yet  the  one  dear  heart  lies  cold  and  still. 
It  is  most  strange,  when  the  great  Miracle 
Hath  for  our  sakes  been  done ;  when  we  have 

had 

Our  inwardest  experience  of  God, 
When  with  his  presence  still  the  room  expands, 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  53 

And  is  awed  after  him,  that  naught  is  changed, 

That  Nature's  face  looks  unacknowledging, 

And  the  mad  world  still  dances  heedless  on 

After  its  butterflies,  and  gives  no  sign. 

'Tis  hard  at  first  to  see  it  all  aright; 

In  vain  Faith  blows  her  trump  to  summon  back 

Her  scattered  troop ;  yet,  through  the  clouded 

glass 

Of  our  own  bitter  tears,  we  learn  to  look 
Undazzled  on  the  kindness  of  God's  face ; 
Earth  is  too  dark,  and  Heaven  alone  shines 

through. 
How  changed,   dear  friend,  are  thy  part  and 

thy  child's ! 

He  bends  above  thy  cradle  now,  or  holds 
His  warning  finger  out  to  be  thy  guide ; 
Thou  art  nursling  now;  he  watches  thee 
Slow  learning,  one  by  one,  the  secret  things 
Which  are  to  him  used  sights  of  every  day ; 
He  smiles  to  see  thy  wondering  glances  con 
The  grass  and  pebbles  of  the  spirit  world, 
To  thee  miraculous;  and  he  will  teach 
Thy  knees  their  due  observances  of  prayer. 

Children  are  God's  apostles,  day  by  day, 
Sent  forth  to  preach  of  love,  and  hope,  and 

peace ; 

Nor  hath  thy  babe  his  mission  left  undone. 
To  me,  at  least,  his  going  hence  hath  given 
Serener  thoughts  and  nearer  to  the  skies, 
And  opened  a  new  fountain  in  my  heart 
For  thee,  my  friend,  and  all :  and  oh,  if  Death 
More  near  approaches,  meditates,  and  clasps 
Even  now  some  dearer,  more  reluctant  hand, 


54  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

God,  strengthen  thou  my  faith,  that  I  may  see 
That  'tis  thine  angel  who,  with  loving  haste, 
Unto  the  service  of  the  inner  shrine 
Doth  waken  my  beloved  with  a  kiss ! 

Cambridge,  Mass.,  Sept.  3d,  1844. 


AN  INCIDENT  IN  A  RAILROAD   CAR. 

He  spoke  of  Burns ;  men  rude  and  rough 
Pressed  round  to  hear  the  praise  of  one 

Whose  breast  was  made  of  manly,  simple  stuff, 
As  homespun  as  their  own. 

And  when  he  read,  they  forward  leaned 
And  heard,  with  eager  hearts  and  ears, 

His  birdlike  songs  whom  glory  never  weaned 
From  humble  smiles  and  tears. 

Slowly  there  grew  a  tender  awe, 
Sunlike  o'er  faces  brown  and  hard, 

As  if  in  him  who  reads  they  felt  and  saw 
Some  presence  of  the  Bard. 

It  was  a  sight  for  sin  and  wrong 

And  slavish  tyranny  to  see, 
A  sight  to  make  our  faith  more  pure  and  strong 

In  high  Humanity. 

I  thought,  these  men  will  carry  hence, 
Promptings  their  former  life  above, 

And  something  of  a  finer  reverence 
For  beauty,  truth,  and  love, 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  55 

God  scatters  love  on  every  side, 

Freely  among  his  children  all, 
And  always  hearts  are  lying  open  wide 

Wherein  some  grains  may  fall. 

There  is  no  wind  but  sows  some  seeds 

Of  a  more  true  and  open  life, 
Which  bursts  unlocked  for    into  high-souled 
deeds 

With  wayside  beauty  rife. 

We  find  within  these  souls  of  ours 
Some  wild  germs  of  a  higher  birth, 

Which  in  the  poet's  tropic  heart  bears  flowers 
Whose  fragrance  fills  the  earth. 

Within  the  hearts  of  all  men  lie 

These  promises  of  wider  bliss, 
Which  blossom  into  hopes  that  cannot  die, 

In  sunny  hours  like  this. 

All  that  hath  been  majestical 

In  life  or  death  since  time  began, 

Is  native  in  the  simple  heart  of  all, 
The  angel  heart  of  man. 

And  thus  among  the  untaught  poor 
Great  deeds  and  feelings  find  a  home 

Which  casts  in  shadow  all  the  golden  lore 
Of  classic  Greece  or  Rome. 

Oh !  mighty  brother-soul  of  man, 
Where'er  thou  art,  in  low  or  high, 

Thy  skyey  arches  with  exulting  span 
Q'er-roof  infinity, 


56  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

All  thoughts  that  mould  the  age  begin 
Deep  down  within  the  primitive  soul, 

And,  from  the  many,  slowly  upward  wing 
To  One  who  grasps  the  whole. 

In  His  broad  breast,  the  feeling  deep 
Which  struggled  on  the  many's  tongue, 

Swells  to  a  tide  of  Thought  whose  surges  leap 
O'er  the  weak  throne  of  wrong. 

Never  did  poesy  appear 

So  full  of  Heav'n  to  me  as  when 
I  saw  how  it  would  pierce  through  pride  and 
fear, 

To  lives  of  coarsest  men. 

It  may  be  glorious  to  write 

Thoughts  that  shall  glad  the  two  or  three 
High  souls  like  those  far  stars  that  come  in 
sight 

Once  in  a  century. 

But  better  far  it  is  to  speak 

One  simple  word  which  now  and  then 
Shall  waken  their  free  nature  in  the  weak 

And  friendless  sons  of  men ; 

To  write  some  earnest  verse  or  line 
Which,  seeking  not  the  praise  of  Art, 

Shall  make  a  clearer  faith  and  manhood  shine 
In  the  unlearned  heart. 

Boston,  April,  1843. 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  57 


AN  INCIDENT  OF   THE  FIRE  AT 
HAMBURG. 

The  tower  of  old  Saint  Nicholas    soared  up 

,  ward  to  the  skies, 
Like  some  huge  piece  of  nature's  make,  the 

growth  of  centuries; 
You  could  not  deem  its  crowding  spires  a  work 

of  human  art, 
They  seemed  to  struggle  lightward  so  from  a 

sturdy  living  heart. 

Not  Nature's  self  more  freely  speaks  in  crystal 

or  in  oak 
Than,  through  the  pious    builder's    hand,    in 

that  gray  pile  she  spoke ; 
And  as  from  acorn  springs  the  oak,  so,  freely 

and  alone, 
Sprang  from  his  heart  this  hymn  to  God,  sung 

in  obedient  stone. 

It  seemed  a  wondrous  freak  of  chance,  so  per 
fect,  yet  so  rough, 

A  whim  of  Nature  crystallized  slowly  in  gran 
ite  tough; 

The  thick  spires  yearned  toward  the  sky  in 
quaint  harmonious'  lines, 

And  in  broad  sunlight  basked  and  slept,  like  a, 
grove  of  blasted  pines, 


68  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Never  did  rock  or  stream  or  tree  lay  claim 

with  better  right 
To  all  the  adorning  sympathies  of  shadow  and 

of  light ; 
And,  in  that  forest  petrified,  as  forester  there 

dwells 
Stout  Herman,  the  old  sacristan,  sole  lord  of 

all  its  bells. 

Surge  leaping  after  surge,  the  fire  roared  on 
ward,  red  as  blood, 

Till  half  of  Hamburg  lay  engulfed  beneath  the 
eddying  flood ; 

For  miles  away,  the  fiery  spray  poured  down 
its  deadly  rain, 

And  back  and  forth  the  billows  drew,  and 
paused,  and  broke  again. 

From  square  to  square,  with  tiger  leaps,  still 

on  and  on  it  came ; 
The  air  to  leeward  trembled  with  the  pantings 

of  the  flame, 
And  church  and  palace,  which  even  now  stood 

whelmed  but  to  the  knee, 
Lift  their  black  roofs  like  breakers  lone  amid 

the  rushing  sea. 

Up  in  his  tower  old  Herman  sat  and  watched 

with  quiet  look ; 
His  soul  had  trusted  God  too  long  to  be  at  last 

forsook : 
He  could  not  fear,  for  surely  God  a  pathway 

would  unfold 
Through  this  red  sea,  for  faithful  hearts,  as 

once  he  did  of  old, 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  59 

But  scarcely  can  he  cross  himself,  or  on  his 

good  saint  call, 
Before  the    sacreligious  flood  o'erleaped  the 

churchyard  wall, 
And,  ere  a  pater  half  was  said,  'mid  smoke  and 

crackling  glare, 
His  island  tower  scarce  juts  its  head  above  the 

wide  despair. 

Upon  the  peril's  desperate  peak  his  heart  stood 

up  sublime; 
His  first  thought  was  for  God  above,  his  next 

was  for  his  chime ; 
"Sing  now,   and  make  your  voices  heard  in 

hymns  of  praise, ' '  cried  he, 
"As  did  the  Israelites  of    old,    safe- walking 

through  the  sea!" 

"Through  this  red  sea  our  God  hath  made  our 

pathway  safe  to  shore ; 
Our  promised  land  stands  full  in  sight;  shout 

now  as  ne'er  before." 
And,  as  the  tower  came  crashing  down,  the 

bells,  in  clear  accord, 

Pealed  forth  the  grand  old  German  hymn — 
"All  good  souls  praise  the  Lord!" 


60  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 


SONNETS. 


As  the  broad  ocean  endlessly  upheaveth, 
With  the  majestic  beating  of  his  heart, 
The  mighty  tides,  whereof  its  rightful  part 
Each  sea- wide  gulf  and  little  weed  receiveth — 
So,  through  his  soul  who  earnestly  belie veth, 
Life  from  the  universal  Heart  doth  flow, 
Whereby  some  conquest  of  the  eternal  woe 
By  instinct  of  God's  nature  he  achieveth: 
A  fuller  pulse  of  this  all-powerful  Beauty 
Into  the  poet's  gulf-like  heart  doth  tide, 
And  he  more  keenly  feels  the  glorious  duty 
Of  serving  Truth  despised  and  crucified — 
Happy,  unknowing  sect  or  creed,  to  rest 
And  feel  God  flow  forever  through  his  breast. 

ii. 

Once  hardly  in  a  cycle  blossometh 

A  flower-like  soul  ripe  with  the  seeds  of  song, 

A  spirit  foreordained  to  cope  with  wrong. 
Whose  divine  thoughts  are  natural  as  breath. 
Who  the  old  Darkness  thickly  scattereth 

With   starry   words  which  shoot  prevailing 
light 

Into  the  deeps,  and  wither  with  the  blight 
Of  serene  Truth  the  coward  heart  of  Death : 
Wo  if  such  spirit  sell  his  birthright  high, 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  61 

And  mock  with  lies  the  longing  soul  of  man ! 
Yet  one  age  longer  must  true  Culture  lie, 

Soothing  her  bitter  fetters  as  she  can, 
Until  new  messages  of  love  outstart 
At  the  next  beating  of  the  infinite  Heart. 

in. 

The  love  of  all  things  springs  from  love  of  one ; 

Wider  the  soul's  horizon  hourly  grows, 

And  o'er  it  with  fuller  glory  flows 
The  sky-like  spirit  of  God ;  a  hope  begun 
In  doubt  and  darkness,  'neath  a  fairer  sun 

Cometh  to  fruitage,  if  it  be  of  Truth ; 

And  to  the  law  of  meekness,  faith,  and  ruth, 
By  inward  sympathy  shall  all  be  won ; 
This  thou  shouldst  know,  who  from  the  painted 
feature 

Of  shifting  Fashion,   couldst   thy  brethren 

turn 
Unto  the  love  of  ever  youthful  nature, 

And  of  a  beauty  fadeless"  and  eterne ; 
And  always  'tis  the  saddest  sight  to  see 
An  old  man  faithless  in  Humanity. 
A  poet  cannot  strive  for  despotism ; 

His  harp  falls  shattered ;  for  it  still  must  be 

The  instinct  of  great  spirits  to  be  free, 
And  the  sworn  foes  of  cunning  barbarism. 
He  who  has  deepest  searched  the  wide  abysm 

Of  that  life-giving  Soul  which  men  call  fate, 

Knows  that  he  put  more  faith  in  lies  and 

hate 

Than  truth  and  love,  is  the  worst  atheism : 
Upward  the  soul  forever  turns  her  eyes; 


62  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

The  next    hour    always    shames   the  hour 

before ; 

One  beauty  at  its  highest  prophecies 
That  by  whose  side  it  shall  seem  mean  and 

poor; 

No  godlike  thing  knows  aught  of  less  and  less, 
But  widens  to  the  boundless  Perfectness. 

v. 

Therefore  think  not  the  Past  is  wise  alone, 
For  Yesterday  knows  nothing  of  the  Best, 
And  thou  shalt  love  it  only  as  the  nest 

Whence  glory-winged  things  to  Heaven  have 
flown. 

To  the  great  Soul  alone  are  all  things  known, 
Present  and  future  are  to  her  as  past, 
While  she  in  glorious  madness  doth  forecast 

That  perfect  bud  which  seems  a  flower  full' 
blown 

To  each  new  Prophet,  and  yet  always  opes 
Fuller  and  fuller  with  each  day  and  hour, 

Heartening  the  soul  with  odor  of  fresh  hoj>es, 
And  longings  high  and  gushings  of  wide 
power, 

Yet  never  is  or  shall  be  fully  blown 

Save  in  the  forethought  of  the  Eternal  One. 

VI. 

Far  'yond  this  narrow  parapet  of  Time, 
With  eyes  uplift,  the  poet's  soul  should  look 
Into  the  Endless  Promise,  nor  should  brook 

One  prying  doubt  to  shake  his  faith  sublime ; 

To  him  the  earth  is  ever  in  her  prime 
And  dewiness  of  morning ;  he  can  see 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  63 

Good  lying  hid,  from  all  eternity, 
Within  the  teeming  womb  of  sin  and  crime ; 
His  soul  shall  not  be  cramped  by  any  bar — 

His  nobleness  should  be  so  God-like  high 
That  his  least  deed  is  perfect  as  a  star, 

His  common  look  majestic  as  the  sky, 
And  all  o'erflooded  with  a  light  from  far, 
Undimmed  by  clouds  of  weak  mortality. 

Boston,  April  2,  1842. 


THE  UNHAPPY  LOT  OF  MR.  KNOTT. 

PART    I. 

Showing  how  he  built  his  house  and  his  wife  moved 
into  it. 

My  worthy  friend,  A.  Gordon  Knott, 

From  business  snug  withdrawn, 
Was  much  contented  with  a  lot 
Which  would  contain  a  Tudor  cot 
'Twixt  twelve  feet  square  of  garden-plot, 

And  twelve  feet  more  of  lawn. 

He  had  laid  business  on  the  shelf 

To  give  his  taste  expansion, 
And,  since  no  man,  retired  with  pelf, 

The  building  mania  can  shun, 
Knott,  being  middle-aged  himself, 
Resolved  to  build  (unhappy  elf '.) 

A  mediaeval  mansion. 
He  called  an  architect  in  counsel; 

"I  want,"  said  he,  "a you  know  what, 

(You  are  a  builder,  I  am  Knott.) 


64  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

A  thing  complete  from  chimney-pot 
Down  to  the  very  groundsels ; 

Here's  a  half-acre  of  good  land; 

Just  have  it  nicely  mapped  and  planned 
And  make  your  workmen  drive  on ; 

Meadow  there  is,  and  upland  too, 

And  I  should  like  a  water- view, 
D'  you  think  you  could  contrive  one? 

(Perhaps  the  pump  and  trough  would  do, 

If  painted  a  judicious  blue?) 

The  woodland  I've  attended  to;" 

(He  meant  three  pines  stuck  up  askew, 
Two  dead  ones  and  a  live  one. ) 

"A  pocket- full  of  rocks  'twould  take 
To  build  a  house  of  free-stone, 

But  then  it  is  not  hard  to  make 
What  now-a-days  is  the  stone; 

The  cunning  painter  in  a  trice 

Your  house's  outside  petrifies, 

And  people  think  it  very  gneiss 
Without  inquiring  deeper ; 

My  money  never  shall  be  thrown 

Away  on  such  a  deal  of  stone, 
When  stone  of  deal  is  cheaper. ' ' 

And  so  the  greenest  of  antiques 

Was  reared  for  Knott  to  dwell  in ; 
The  architect  worked  hard  for  weeks 
Inventing  all  his  private  peaks 
Upon  the  roof,  whose  crop  of  leaks 

Had  satisfied  Fluellen, 
Whatever  anybody  had 
Out  of  the  common,  good  or  bad, 
Knott  had  it  all  worked  well  in, 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  «5 

A  donjon-keep,  where  clothes  might  dry, 
A  porter's  lodge  that  was  a  sty, 
A  campanile  slim  and  high, 

Too  small  to  hang  a  bell  in ; 
All  up  and  down  and  here  and  there, 
With  Lord-knows -whats  of  round  and  square 
Stuck  on  at  random  everywhere, 
It  was  a  house  to  make  one  stare, 

All  corners  and  all  gables ; 
Like  dogs  let  loose  upon  a  bear, 
Ten  emulous  styles  staboyed  with  care, 
The  whole  among  them  seemed  to  tear, 
And  all  the  oddities  to  spare 

Were  set  upon  the  stables. 

Knott  was  delighted  with  a  pile 

Approved  by  fashion's  leaders; 
(Only  he  made  the  builder  smile 
By  asking  every  little  while, 
Why  that  was  called  the  Twodoor  style 

Which  certainly  had  three  doors?) 
Yet  better  for  this  luckless  man 
If  he  had  put  a  downright  ban 

Upon  the  thing  in  limine ; 
For,  though  to  quit  affairs  his  plan, 
Ere  many  days,  poor  Knott  began 
Perforce  accepting  draughts,  that  ran 

All  ways— except  up  chimney ; 
The  house,  though  painted  stone  to  mock, 
With  nice  white  lines  round  every  block, 

Some  trepidation  stood  in, 
When  tempests  (with  petrific  shock, 
So  to  speak)  made  it  really  rock, 

5   Lowell 


66  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Though  not  a  whit  less  wooden ; 
And  painted  stone,  howe'er  well  done, 
Will  not  take  in  the  prodigal  sun 
Whose  beams  are  never  quite  at  one 

With  our  terrestrial  lumber; 
So  the  wood  shrank  around  the  knots, 
And  gaped  in  disconcerting  spots, 
And  there  were  lots  of  dots  and  rots 

And  crannies  without  number, 
Wherethrough,  as  you  may  well  presume, 
The  wind,  like  water  through  a  flume, 

Came  rushing  in  ecstatic. 
Leaving,  in  all  three  floors  no  room 

That  was  not  a  rheumatic ; 
And,  what  with  points  and  squares  and  rounds 

Grown  shaky  on  their  poises, 
The  house  at  night  was  full  of  pounds, 
Thumps,    bumps,  creaks,   scratchings,  raps — 

till— "Zounds!" 

Cried  Knott,  "this  goes  beyond  all  bounds, 
I  do  not  deal  in  tongues  and  sounds, 
Nor  have  I  let  my  house  and  grounds 

To  a  family  of  Noyeses!" 

But  though  Knott's  house  was  full  of  airs, 

He  had  but  one — a  daughter; 
And,  as  he  owned  much  stocks  and  shares, 
Many  who  wished  to  render  theirs 
Such  vain,  unsatisfying  cares, 
And  needed  wives  to  sew  their  tears, 

In  matrimony  sought  her; 
They  vowed  her  gold  they  wanted  not, 

Their  faith  would  never  falter, 
They  longed  to  tie  this  single  Knott 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  67 

In  the  Hymeneal  halter; 
So  daily  at  the  door  they  rang, 

Cards  for  the  belle  delivering, 
Or  in  the  choir  at  her  they  sang, 
Achieving  such  a  rapturous  twang 

As  set  her  nerves  a-shivering. 

Now  Knott  had  quite  made  up  his  mind 

That  Colonel  Jones  should  have  her; 
No  beauty  he,  but  oft  we  find 
Sweet  kernels  'neath  a  roughish  rind, 
So  hoped  his  Jenny  'd  be  resigned 

And  make  no  more  palaver; 
Glanced  at  the  fact  that  love  was  blind, 
That  girls  were  ratherish  inclined 

To  pet  their  little  crosses, 
Then  nosologically  defined 
The  rate  at  which  the  system  pined 
In  those  unfortunates  who  dined 
Upon  that  metaphoric  kind 

Of  dish — their  own  proboscis. 

But  she  with  many  tears  and  moans, 

Besought  him  not  to  mock  her, 
Said  'twas  too  much  for  flesh  and  bones, 
To  marry  mortgages  and  loans, 
That  father's  hearts  were  stocks  and  stones 
And  that  she'd  go,  when  Mrs.  Jones, 

To  Davy  Jones's  locker; 
Then  gave  her  head  a  little  toss 
That  said  as  plain  as  ever  was, 
If  men  are  always  at  a  loss 

Mere  womankind  to  bridle — 
To  try  the  thing  on  woman  cross, 


68  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Were  fifty  times  as  idle ; 
For  she  a  strict  resolve  had  made 

And  registered  in  private, 
That  either  she  would  die  a  maid, 
Or  else  be  Mrs.  Dr.  Slade, 

If  woman  could  contrive  it ; 
And,  though  the  wedding-day  was  set, 

Jenny  was  more  so,  rather, 
Declaring,  in  a  pretty  pet, 
That,  howsoe'er  they  spread  their  net, 
She  would  out-Jennyral  them  yet, 

The  colonel  and  her  father. 

Just  at  this  time  the  Public's  eyes 

Were  keenly  on  the  watch,  a  stir 
Beginning  slowly  to  arise 
About  those  questions  and  replies, 
Those  raps  that  unwrapped  mysteries 

So  rapidly  at  Rochester. 
And,  Knott,  already  nervous  grown 
By  lying  much  awake  alone, 
And  listening,  sometimes  to  a  moan, 

And  sometimes  to  a  clatter, 
Whene'er  the  wind  at  night  would  rouse 
The  ginger-bread-work  on  his  house, 
Or  when  some  hasty-tempered  mouse, 
Behind  the  plastering,  made  a  towse 

About  a  family  matter, 
Began  to  wonder  if  his  wife, 
A  paralytic  half  her  life, 

Which  made  it  more  surprising, 
Might  not,  to  rule  him  from  her  urn, 
Have  taken  a  peripatetic  turn 

For  want  of  exorcising. 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  69 

This  thought,  once  nestled  in  his  head, 

Ere  long  contagious  grew,  and  spread 

Infecting  all  his  mind  with  dread, 

Until  at  last  he  lay  in  bed 

And  heard  his  wife,  with  well-known  tread, 

Entering  the  kitchen  through  the  shed, 

(Or  was't  his  fancy  mocking?) 
Opening  the  pantry,  cutting  bread, 
And  then  (she'd  been  some  ten  years  dead) 

Closets  and  drawers  unlocking ; 
Or,  in  his  room  (his  breath  grew  thick), 
He  heard  the  long  familiar  click 
Of  slender  needles  flying  quick, 

As  if  she  knit  a  stocking ; — 
For  whom? — he  prayed  that  years  might  flit 

With  pains  rheumatic  shooting, 
Before  those  ghostly  things  she  knit 
Upon  his  unfleshed  sole  might  fit, 
He  did  not  fancy  it  a  bit, 

To  stand  upon  that  footing ; 
At  other  times,  his  frightened  hairs 

Above  the  bed-clothes  trusting, 
He  heard  her,  full  of  household  cares, 
(No  dream  entrapped  in  supper's  snares, 
The  foal  of  horrible  nightmares, 
But  broad  awake,  as  he  declares,) 
Go  bustling  up  and  down  the  stairs, 
Or  setting  back  last  evening's  chairs, 

Or  with  the  poker  thrusting 
The  raked-up  sea-coal's  hardened  crust — 
And — what!  impossible!  it  must! 
He  knew  she  had  returned  to  dust, 
And  yet  could  scarce  his  senses  trust, 


70  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Hearing  her  as  she  poked  and  fussed 
About  the  parlor,  dusting! 

Night  after  night  he  strove  to  sleep 

And  take  his  ease  in  spite  of  it ; 
But  still  his  flesh  would  chill  and  creep, 
And,  though  two  night-lamps  he  might  keep, 

He  could  not  so  make  light  of  it. 
At  last,  quite  desperate,  he  goes 
And  tells  his  neighbors  all  his  woes, 

Which  did  but  their  amount  enhance; 
They  made  such  mockery  of  his  fears, 
That  soon  his  days  were  of  all  jeers, 

His  nights  of  the  rueful  countenance ; 
"I  thought  most  folks,"  one  neighbor  said, 
"Gave  up  the  ghost  when  they  were  dead," 
Another  gravely  shook  his  head, 

Adding,  "from  all  we  hear,  it's 
Quite  plain  poor  Knott  is  going  mad— 
For  how  can  he  at  once  be  sad 

And  think  he  's  full  of  spirits?" 
A  third  declared  he  knew  a  knife 

Would  cut  this  Knott  much  quicker, 
"The  surest  way  to  end  all  strife, 
And  lay  the  spirit  of  a  wife, 

Is  just  to  take  and  lick  her!" 
A  temperance  man  caught  up  the  word, 
"Ah,  yes,"  he  groan e'd,  "I've  always  heard 

Our  poor  friend  always  slanted 
Tow'rd  taking  liquor  overmuch ; 
I  fear  these  spirits  may  be  Dutch, 
(A  sort  of  gins,  or  something  such,) 

With  which  his  house  is  haunted ; 
I  see  the  thing  as  clear  as  light — 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  71 

If  Knott  would  give  tip  getting  tight, 
Naught  farther  would  be  wanted:" 

So  all  his  neighbors  stood  aloof 

And,  that  the  spirits  'neath  his  roof 

Were  not  entirely  up  to  proof, 
Unanimously  granted. 

Knott  knew  that  cocks  and  sprites  were  foes, 
And  so  bought  up,  Heaven  only  knows 
How  many,  though  he  wanted  crows 
To  give  ghosts  cause,  as  I  suppose, 

To  think  that  day  was  breaking ; 
Moreover,  what  he  called  his  park, 
He  turned  into  a  kind  of  ark, 
For  dogs,  because  a  little  bark 
Is  a  good  tonic  in  the  dark, 

If  one  is  given  to  waking; 
But  things  went  on  from  bad  to  worse, 
His  curs  were  nothing  but  a  curse, 

And,  what  was  still  more  shocking, 
Foul  ghosts  of  living  fowl  made  scoff 
And  would  not  think  of  going  off 

In  spite  of  all  his  cocking. 

Shanghais,  Bucks-counties,  Dominiques, 
Malays  (that  didn't  lay  for  weeks), 

Polanders,  Bantams,  Dorkings, 
Waving  the  cost,  no  trifling  ill, 
(Since  each  brought  in  his  little  bill) 
By  day  or  night  were  never  still, 
But  every  thought  of  rest  would  kill 

With  cacklings  and  with  quorkings; 
Henry  the  Eighth  of  wives  got  free 

By  a  way  he  had  of  axing ; 


72  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

But  poor  Knott's  Tudor  henery 
Was  not  so  fortunate,  and  he 

Still  found  his  trouble  waxing ; 
As  for  the  dogs,  the  rows  they  made, 
And  how  they  howled,   snarled,  barked,  and 
bayed, 

Beyond  all  human  knowledge  is ; 
All  night,  as  wide  awake  as  gnats, 
The  terriers  rumpused  after  rats, 
Or,  just  for  practice,  taught  their  brats 
To  worry  cast-off  shoes  and  hats, 
The  bull-dogs  settled  private  spats, 
All  chased  imaginary  cats, 
Or  raved  behind  the  fence's  slats 
At  real  ones,  or,  from  their  mats, 
With  friends  miles  off,  held  pleasant  chats, 
Or,  like  some  folks  in  white  cravats, 
Contemptuous  of  sharps  and  flats, 

Sat  up  and  sang  dogsologies. 

PART    II. 

Showing  what  is  meant  by  a  flow  of  Spirits. 

At  first  the  ghosts  were  somewhat  shy, 
Coming  when  none  but  Knott  was  nigh, 
And  people  said  'twas  all  their  eye, 
(Or  rather  his)  a  flam,  the  sly 

Digestion's  machination; 
Some  recommended  a  wet  sheet, 
Some  a  nice  broth  of  pounded  peat, 
Some  a  cold  flat-iron  to  the  feet, 
Some  a  decoction  of  lamb's-bleat; 
Some  a  southwesterly  grain  of  wheat; 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  73 

Meat  was  by  some  pronounced  unmeet, 
Others  thought  fish  most  indiscreet, 
And  that  'twas  worse  than  all  to  eat 
Of  vegetables,  sour  or  sweet, 
(Except,  perhaps,  the  skin  of  beet,) 

In  such  a  concatenation : 
One  quack  his  button  gently  plucks 
And  murmurs  "biliary  ducks!" 

Says  Knott,  "I  never  ate  one;" 
But  all,  though  brimming  full  of  wrath, 
Homeo,  Allo,  Hydropath, 
Concurred  in  this — that  t'other's  path 

To  death's  door  was  the  straight  one. 

But,  spite  of  medical  advice, 

The  ghosts  came  thicker,  and  a  spice 

Of  mischief  grew  apparent ; 
Nor  did  they  only  come  at  night, 
But  seemed  to  fancy  broad  daylight, 
Till  Knott,  in  horror  and  affright, 

His  unoffending  hair  rent; 
Whene'er,  with  handkerchief  on  lap, 
He  made  his  elbow-chair  a  trap 
To  catch  an  after-dinner  nap, 
The  spirits,  always  on  the  tap, 
Would  make  a  sudden  rap,  rap,  rap, 
The  half-spun  cord  of  life  to  snap, 
(And  what  is  life  without  its  nap 
But  threadbareness  and  mere  mishap?) 
As  't  were  with  a  percussion  cap 

The  trouble's  climax  capping; 
It  seemed  a  party  dried  and  grim 
Of  mummies  had  come  to  visit  him, 
Each  getting  off  from  every  limb 


74  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Its  multitudinous  wrapping ; 
Scratchings  sometimes  the  walls  ran  round, 
The  merest  penny- weights  of  sound ; 
Sometimes  't  was  only  by  the  pound 

They  carried  on  their  dealing, 
A  thumping  'neath  the  parlor  floor 
Thump — bump — thump  —  bumping   o'er    and 

o'er, 

As  if  the  vegetables  in  store, 
(Quiet  and  orderly  before,) 

Were  all  together  pealing ; 
You  would  have  thought  the  thing  was  done 
By  the  Spirit  of  some  son  of  a  gun, 

And  that  a  forty-two  pounder, 
Or  that  the  ghost  which  made  such  sounds 
Could  be  none  other  than  John  Pounds, 

Of  Ragged  Schools  the  founder. 

Through  three  gradations  of  affright 
The  awful  noises  reached  their  height; 

At  first  they  knocked  nocturnally, 
Then,  for  some  reason,  changing  quite, 
(As  mourners,  after  six  months'  flight, 
Turn  suddenly  from  dark  to  light,) 

Began  to  knock  diurnally, 
And  last,  combining  all  their  stocks, 
(Scotland  was  ne'er  so  full  of  Knox,) 
Into  one  Chaos,  (father  of  Nox,) 
Nocte  pluit — they  showered  knocks, 

And  knocked,  knocked,  knocked  eternally; 
Ever  upon  the  go,  like  buoys, 
(Wooden  sea-urchins,)  all  Knott's  joys, 
They  turned  to  trouble  and  a  noise 

That  preyed  on  him  internally. 


LOWELL'S    POEMS.  75 

Soon  they  grew  wider  in  their  scope; 
Whenever  Knott  a  door  would  ope, 
It  would  ope  not,  or  else  elope 
And  fly  back  (curbless  as  a  trope 
Once  started  down  a  stanza's  slope 
By  a  bard  that  gave  it  too  much  rope — ) 

Like  a  clap  of  thunder  slamming ; 
And,  when  kind  Jenny  brought  his  hat, 
(She  always,  when  he  walked,  did  that,) 
Just  as  upon  his  head  it  sat, 
Submitted  to  his  settling  pat — 
Some  unseen  hand  would  jam  it  flat, 
Or  give  it  such  a  furious  bat 

That  eyes  and  nose  went  cramming 
Up  out  of  sight,  and  consequently, 
As  when  in  life  it  paddled  free, 

His  beaver  caused  much  damning ; 
If  these  things  seem  o'erstrained  to  be, 
Read  the  account  of  Doctor  Dee, 
'Tis  in  our  college  library; 
Read  Wesley's  circumstantial  plea, 
And  Mrs.  Crowe,  more  like  a  bee, 
Sucking  the  nightshade's  honied  fee, 
And  Stilling's  Pneumatology  ; 
Consult  Scott,  Glanvil,  grave  Wierus,  and  both 

Mathers;  further,  see 
Webster,   Casaubon,  James  First's  treatise,  a 

right  royal  Q.  E.  D 
Writ  with  the  moon  in  perigree, 

Bodin  de  Demonomanie 

(Accent  that  last  line  gingerly) 
All  full  of  learning  as  the  sea 
Of  fishes,  and  all  disagree, 
Save  in  Sathanas  apage! 


76  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Or,  what  will  surely  put  a  flea 

In  unbelieving  ears — with  glee, 

Out  of  a  paper  (sent  to  me 

By  some  friend  who  forgot  to  P  ... 

A  .  .  .  Y  .  .  . — I  use  cryptography 

Lest  I  his  vengeful  pen  should  dree — 

HisP...O...S...T..  .  A.  .  .  G.  .  .  E.  .  .) 

Things  to  the  same  effect  I  cut, 
About  the  tantrums  of  a  ghost, 
Not  more  than  three  weeks  since,  at  most, 

Near  Stratford,  in  Connecticut. 

[Heavens!  what  a  sentence  that  is! 

I  throw  it  in,  though,  gratis, 

And,  taking  breath,  anew 

Catch  up  my  legend's  clew.] 
Knott's  Upas  daily  spread  its  roots, 
Sent  up  on  all  sides  livelier  shoots, 
And  bore  more  pestilential  fruits ; 
The  ghosts  behaved  like  downright  brutes, 
They  snipped  holes  in  his  Sunday  suits, 
Practiced  all  night  on  octave  flutes, 
Put  peas  (not  peace)  into  his  boots, 

Whereof  grew  corns  in  season, 
They  scotched  his  sheets,  and,  what  was  worse, 
Stuck  his  silk  night-cap  full  of  burs. 
Till  he,  in  language  plain  and  terse, 
(But  much  unlike  a  Bible  verse,) 

Swore  he  should  lose  his  reason. 

Of  course  such  doings,  far  and  wide, 
With  rumors  filled  the  country-side, 
And,  (as  it  is  our  nation's  pride, 
To  think  a  Truth's  not  verified 
Till  with  majorities  allied,) 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  77 

Parties  sprung  up,  affirm-ed,  denied, 
And  candidates  with  questions  plied, 
Who,  like  the  circus-riders,  tried 
At  once  both  hobbies  to  bestride, 
And  each  with  his  opponent  vied 
In  being  inexplicit. 
Earnest  inquirers  multiplied ; 
Folks,  whose  tenth  cousins  lately  died, 
Wrote  letters  long,  and  Knott  replied; 
All  who  could  either  walk  or  ride, 
Gathered  to  wonder  or  deride, 

And  paid  the  house  a  visit ; 
Horses  were  at  his  pine-trees  tied, 
Mourners  in  every  corner  sighed, 
Widows  brought  children  there  that  cried, 
Swarms  of  lean  Seekers,  eager-eyed, 
(People  Knott  never  could  abide,) 
Into  each  hole  and  cranny  pried 
With  strings  of  questions  cut  and  dried 
From  the  Devout  Inquirer's  Guide, 
For  the  wise  spirits  to  decide — 

As,  for  example,  is  it 
True  that  the  damned  are  fried  or  boiled? 
Was  the  earth's  axis  greased  or  oiled? 
Who  cleaned  the  moon  when  it  was  soiled? 

How  heal  diseased  potatoes? 
Did  spirits  have  the  sense  of  smell? 
Where  would  departed  spinsters  dwell? 
If  the  late  Zenas  Smith  were  well? 
If  Earth  were  solid  or  a  shell? 
Were  spirits  fond  of  Doctor  Fell? 
Did  the  bull  toll  Cock-Robin's  knell? 
What  remedy  would  bugs  expel? 
If  Paine 's  inventions  were  a  sell? 


78  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Did  spirits  by  Webster's  system  spell? 
Was  it  a  sin  to  be  a  belle? 
Did  dancing  sentence  folks  to  hell 
If  so,  then  where  most  torture  fell — 

On  little  toes  or  great  toes? 
If  life's  true  seat  were  in  the  brain? 
Did  Ensign  mean  to  marry  Jane? 
By  whom,  in  fact,  was  Morgan  slain? 
Could  matter  ever  suffer  pain? 
What  would  take  out  a  cherrj7-  stain? 
Who  picked  the  pocket  of  Seth  Crane, 
Of  Waldo  precinct,  State  of  Maine? 
Was  Sir  John  Franklin  sought  in  vain? 
Did  primitive  Christians  evar  train? 
What  was  the  family  name  of  Cain? 
Them  spoons,  were  they  by  Betty  ta'en? 
Would  earth-worm  poultice  cure  a  sprain? 
Was  Socrates  so  dreadful  plain? 
What  teamster  guided  Charles's  wain? 
Was  Uncle  Ethan  mad  or  sane? 
And  could  his  will  in  force  remain? 
If  not,  what  counsel  to  retain? 
Did  Le  Sage  steal  Gil  Bias  from  Spain? 
Was  Junius  writ  by  Thomas  Paine? 
Were  ducks  discomfited  by  rain? 
How  did  Britannia  rule  the  main? 
Was  Jonas  coming  back  again? 
Was  vital  truth  upon  the  wane? 
Did  ghosts,  to  scare  folks,  drag  a  chain? 
Who  was  our  Huldah's  chosen  swain? 
Did  none  have  teeth  pulled  without  payin'. 

Ere  ether  was  invented? 
Whether  mankind  would  not  agree, 
If  the  universe  were  tuned  in  C? 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  79 

What  was  it  ailed  Lucindy's  knee? 
Whether  folks  eat  folks  in  Feejee? 
Whether  his  name  would  end  with  T? 
If  Saturn's  rings  were  two  or  three? 
And  what  bump  in  Phrenology 

They  truly  represented? 
These  problems  dark  wherein  they  groped, 
Wherewith  man's  reason   vainly  coped, 
Now  that  the  spirit-world  was  oped, 
In  all  humility  they  hoped 

Would  be  resolved  instanter ; 
Each  of  the  miscellaneous  rout 
Brought  his,  or  her,  own  little  doubt, 
And  wished  to  pump  the  spirits  out, 
Through  his,  or  her,  own  private  spout, 

Into  his,  or  her,  decanter. 

PART     III. 

Wherein  it  is  shown  that  the  most  ardent  Spirits  are 
more  ornamental  than  useful. 

Many  a  speculating  wight 
Came  by  express  trains,  day  and  night, 
To  see  if  Knott  would  "sell  his  right," 
Meaning  to  make  the  ghosts  a  sight — 

What  they  called  a  "meenaygerie;" 
One  threatened,  if  he  would  not  "trade," 
His  run  of  custom  to  invade, 
(He  could  not  these  sharp  folks  persuade 
That  he  was  not,  in  some  way,  paid,) 

And  stamp  him  as  a  plagiary, 
By  coming  down,  at  one  fell  swoop, 
With  THE  ORIGINAL  KNOCKING  TROUPE, 

Come  recently  from  Hades, 


80  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Who  (for  a  quarter-dollar  heard) 
Would  ne'er  rap  out  a  hasty  word 
Whence  any  blame  might  be  incurred 

From  the  most  fastidious  ladies; 
The  late  lamented  Jesse  Soule 
To  stir  the  ghosts  up  with  a  pole 
And  be  director  of  the  whole, 

Who  was  engaged  the  rather 
For  the  rare  merits  he'd  combine, 
Having  been  in  the  spirit  line, 
Which  trade  he  only  did  resign 
With  general  applause,  to  shine, 
Awful  in  mail  of  cotton  fine, 

As  ghost  of  Hamlet's  father! 
Another  a  fair  plan  reveals 
Never  yet  hit  on,  which,  he  feels, 
To  Knott's  religious  sense  appeals — 
"We'll  have  your  house  set  up  on  wheels, 

A  speculation  pious ; 
For  music  we  can  shortly  find 
A  barrel-organ  that  will  grind 
Psalm-tunes  (an  instrument  designed 
For  the  New  England  tour)  refined 
From  secular  drosses,  and  inclined 
To  an  unworldly  turn  (combined 

With  no  sectarian  bias;) 
Then,  traveling  by  stages  slow, 
Under  the  style  of  Knott  &  Co., 
I  would  accompany  the  show 
As  moral  lecturer,  the  foe 
Of  Rationalism ;  you  could  throw 
The  rappings  in,  and  make  them  go 
Strict  Puritan  principles,  you  know, 
(How  do  you  make  'em?  with  your  toe?) 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  81 

And  the  receipts  which  thence  might  flow, 

We  could  divide  between  us ; 
Still  more  attractions  to  combine, 
Beside  these  services  of  mine, 
I  will  throw  in  a  very  fine 
(It  would  do  nicely  for  a  sign) 

Original  Titian's  Venus." 
Another  offered  handsome  fees 
If  Knott  would  get  Demosthenes. 
(Nay,  his  mere  knuckles,  for  more  ease,) 
To  rap  a  few  short  sentences ; 
Or  if,  for  want  of  proper  keys, 

His  Greek  might  make  confusion, 
Then,  just  to  get  a  rap  from  Burke, 
To  recommend  a  little  work 

On  Public  Elocution. 
(Nonnulla  hie  desnut 
Meliora  quae  sunt.) 

Meanwhile  the  spirits  made  replies 
To  all  the  reverent  whats  and  whys, 
Resolving  doubts  of  every  size, 
And  giving  seekers  grave  and  wise, 
Who  came  to  know  their  destinies, 

A  rap-turous  reception ; 
When  unbelievers  void  of  grace 
Came  to  investigate  the  place, 
(Creatures  of  Sadducistic  race, 
With  groveling  intellects  and  base) 
They  could  not  find  the  slightest  trace 

To  indicate  deception ; 
Indeed,  it  is  declared  by  some 
That  spirits  (of  this  sort)  are  glum, 
Almost,  or  wholly,  deaf  and  dumb, 

« -  juowell 


82  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

And  (out  of  self-respect)  quite  mum 
To  sceptic  natures  cold  and  numb, 
Who  of  this  kind  of  Kingdom  Come, 

Have  not  a  just  conception ; 
True,  there  were  people  who  demurred 
That,  though  the  raps  no  doubt  were  heard 

BcUi  under  them  and  o'er  them, 
Yet,  somehow,  when  a  search  they  made, 
They  found  Miss  Jenny  sore  afraid, 
Or  Jenny's  lover,  Doctor  Slade, 
Equally  awe-struck  and  dismayed, 
Or  Deborah,  the  chamber-maid, 
Whose  terrors,  not  to  be  gainsaid, 
In  laughs  hysteric  were  displayed, 

Was  always  there  before  them ; 
This  had  its  due  effect  with  some 
Who  straight  departed,  muttering,  Hum! 

Transparent  hoax !  and  Gammon ! 
But  these  were  few ;  believing  souls 
Came,  day  by  day,  in  larger  shoals, 
As,  the  ancients'  to  the  windy  holes 
'Neath  Delphi's  tripod  brought  their  doles, 

Or  to  the  shrine  of  Ammon. 
The  spirits  seemed  exceeding  tame, 
Call  whom  you  fancied  and  he  came; 
The  shades  august  of  eldest  fame 

You  summoned  with  an  awful  ease; 
As  grosser  spirits  gurgled  out 
From  chair  and  table  with  a  spout, 
In  Auerbach's  cellar  once,  to  flout 
The  senses  of  the  rabble  rout, 
Where'er  the  gimlet  twirled  about 

Of  cunning  Mephistophiles — 
So  did  these  spirits  seem  in  store, 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  88 

Behind  the  wainscot  or  the  door, 
Ready  to  thrill  the  being's  core 
Of  every  enterprising  bore 

With  their  astounding  glamour; 
Whatever  ghost  one  wished  to  hear, 
By  strange  coincidence,  was  near 
To  make  the  past  or  future  clear, 

(Sometimes  in  shocking  grammar,) 
By  raps  and  taps,  now  there,  now  here— 
It  seemed  as  if  the  spirit  queer 
Of  some  departed  auctioneer 
Were  doomed  to  practice  by  the  year 

With  the  spirit  of  his  hammer  ; 
Whate'er  you  asked  was  answered,  yet 
One  could  not  very  deeply  get 
Into  the  obliging  spirits'  debt, 
Because  they  used  the  alphabet 

In  all  communications, 
And  new  revealings  (though  sublime) 
Rapped  out,  one  letter  at  a  time, 

With  boggles,  hesitations, 
Stoppings,  beginnings  o'er  again, 
And  getting  matters  into  train, 
Could  hardly  overload  the  brain 

With  too  excessive  rations, 
Since  just  to  ask  if  two  and  two 
Really  make  four?  or,  How  d'ye  do? 
And  get  the  fit  replies  thereto 
In  the  tramundane  rat-tat-too, 

Might  ask  a  whole  day's  patience. 

*T  was  strange  ('mongst  other  things)  to  find 
In  what  odd  sets  the  ghosts  combined, 
Happy  forthwith  to  thump  any 


84  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Piece  of  intelligence  inspired, 

The  truth  whereof  had  been  inquired 

By  some  one  of  the  company; 
For  instance,  Fielding,  Mirabeau, 
Orator  Henley,  Cicero, 
Paley,  John  Zisca,  Marivaux, 
Melancthon,  Robertson,  Junot, 
Scaliger,  Chesterfield,  Rousseau, 
Hakluyt,  Boccaccio,  South,  De  Foe, 
Diaz,  Josephus,  Richard  Roe, 
Odin,  Arminius,  Charles  le  gros, 
Tiresias,  the  late  James  Crow, 
Casabianca,  Grose,  Prideaux, 
Old  Grimes,  Young  Norval,  Swift,  Brissot, 
Maimonides,  the  Chevalier  D  'O, 
Socrates,  Fenelon,  Job,  Stow, 
The  inventor  of  Elixir  pro, 
Euripides,  Spinoza,  Poe, 
Confucius,  Hiram  Smith,  and  Fo, 
Came  (as  it  seemed,  somewhat  de  trap) 
With  a  disembodied  Esquimaux, 
To  say  that  it  was  so  and  so, 

With  Franklin's  expedition; 
One  testified  to  ice  and  snow, 
One  that  the  mercury  was  low, 
One  that  his  progress  was  quite  slow, 
One  that  he  much  desired  to  go, 
One  that  the  cook  had  frozen  his  toe, 
(Dissented  from  by  Sandolo, 
Wordsworth,  Cynaegirus,  Boileau, 
La  Hontan  and  Sir  Thomas  Roe,) 
One  saw  twelve  white  bears  in  a  row, 
One  saw  eleven  and  a  crow, 
With  other  things  we  could  not  know 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  85 

(Of  great  statistic  value,  though) 

By  our  mere  mortal  vision, 
•Sometimes  the  spirits  made  mistakes, 
And  seemed  to  play  at  ducks  and  drakes, 
With  bold  inquiry's  heaviest  stakes 

In  science  or  in  mystery ; 
They  knew  so  little  (and  that  wrong) 
Yet  rapped  it  out  so  bold  and  strong, 
One  would  have  said  the  entire  throng 

Had  been  Professors  of  History; 
What  made  it  odder  was,  that  those 
Who,  you  would  naturally  suppose, 
Could  solve  a  question,  if  they  chose, 
As  easily  as  count  their  toes 

Were  just  the  ones  that  blundered; 
One  day,  Ulysses  happening  down, 
A  reader  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne 

And  who  (with  him)  had  wondered 
What  song  it  was  the  Sirens  sang, 
Asked  the  shrewd  Ithacan — bang!  bang! 
With  this  response  the  chamber  rang, 

"I  guess  it  was  Old  Hundred." 
And  Franklin,  being  asked  to  name 
The  reason  why  the  lightning  came, 

Replied,  "Because  it  thundered." 

On  one  sole  point  the  ghosts  agreed, 
One  fearful  point,  than  which,  indeed, 

Nothing  could  seem  absurder ; 
Poor  Colonel  Jones  they  all  abused, 
And  finally  downright  accused 

The  poor  old  man  of  murder ; 
'Twas  thus;  by  dreadful  raps  was  shown 
Some  spirit's  longing  to  make  known 


86  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

A  bloody  fact,  which  he  alone 

Was  privy  to,  (such  ghosts  more  prone 

In  Earth's  affairs  to  meddle  are;) 
Who  are  you?  with  awe-stricken  looks, 
All  ask :  his  airy  knuckles  he  crooks, 
And  raps,  "I  was  Eliab  Snooks, 

That  used  to  be  a  pedler ; 
Some  on  ye  still  are  on  my  books!" 
Whereat,  to  inconspicuous  nooks, 
(More  fearing  this  than  common  spooks,) 

Shrank  each  indebted  meddler; 
Further  the  vengeful  ghost  declared 
That  while  his  earthly  life  was  spared, 
About  the  country  he  had  fared, 

A  duly  licensed  follower 
Of  that  much-wandering  trade  that  wins 
Slow  profit  from  the  sale  of  tins, 

And  various  kinds  of  hollow-ware ; 
That  Colonel  Jones  enticed  him  in 
Pretending  that  he  wanted  tin, 
There  slew  him  with  a  rolling-pin, 
Hid  him  in  a  potato-bin, 

And  (the  same  night)  him  ferried 
Across  Great  Pond  to  t'other  shore, 
And  there  on  land  of  Widow  Moore, 
Just  where  you  turn  to  Larkin's  store, 

Under  a  rock  him  buried ; 
Some  friends  (who  happened  to  be  by) 
He  called  upon  to  testify 
That  what  he  said  was  not  a  lie, 

And  that  he  did  not  stir  this 
Foul  matter  out  of  any  spite 
But  from  a  simple  love  of  right ; — 

Which  statement  the  Nine  Worthies, 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  87 

Rabbi  Akiba,  Charlemagne, 

Seth,  Colley  Gibber,  General  Wayne, 

Cambyses,  Tasso,  Tubal-Cain, 

The  owner  of  a  castle  in  Spain, 

Jehangire,  and  the  Widow  of  Nain, 

(The  friends  aforesaid)  made  more  plain 

And  by  loud  raps  attested ; 
To  the  same  purport  testified 
Plato,  John  Wilkes,  and  Colonel  Pride 
Who  knew  said  Snooks  before  he  died, 

Had  in  his  wares  invested, 
Thought  him  entitled  to  belief 
And  freely  could  concur,  in  brief 

In  every  thing  the  rest  did. 

Eliab  this  occasion  seized, 
(Distinctly  here  the  Spirit  sneezed) 
To  say  that  he  should  ne'er  be  eased 
Till  Jenny  married  whom  she  pleased, 

Free  from  all  checks  and  urgin's, 
(This  spirit  dropped  his  final  g's,) 
And  that,  unless  Knott  quickly  sees 
This  done,  the  spirits  to  appease, 
They  would  come  back  his  life  to  tease 
As  thick  as  mites  in  ancient  cheese, 
And  let  his  house  on  an  endless  lease 
To  the  ghosts  (terrific  rappers  these 
And  veritable  Eumenides,) 

Of  the  Eleven  Thousand  Virgins! 

Knott  was  perplexed  and  shook  his  head, 
He  did  not  wish  his  child  to  wed 

With  a  suspected  murderer, 
(For,  true  or  false,  the  rumor  spread,) 


88  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

But  as  for  this  riled  life  he  led, 
"It  would  not  answer,"  so  he  said, 
"To  have  it  go  no  furderer." 

At  last,  scarce  knowing  what  it  meant, 
Reluctantly  he  gave  consent 
That  Jenny,  since  't  was  evident 
That  she  would  follow  her  own  bent, 

Should  make  her  own  election ; 
For  that  appeared  the  only  way 
These  frightful  noises  to  allay 
Which  had  already  turned  him  gray 

And  plunged  him  in  dejection. 

Accordingly,  this  artless  maid 

Her  father's  ordinance  obeyed, 

And,  all  in  whitest  crape  arrayed, 

(Miss  Pulsifer  the  dresses  made 

And  wishes  here  the  fact  displayed 

That  she  still  carries  on  the  trade, 

The  third  door  south  from  Bagg's  Arcade,) 

A  very  faint  "I  do"  essayed 

And  gave  her  hand  to  Hiram  Slade, 

From  which  time  forth,  the  ghosts  were  laid 

And  ne'er  gave  trouble  after; 
But  the  Selectmen,  be  it  known, 
Dug  underneath  the  aforesaid  stone, 
Where  the  poor  pedler's  corpse  was  thrown, 
And  found  there-under  a  jaw-bone, 
Though,  when  the  crowner  sat  thereon, 
He  nothing  hatched,  except  alone 

Successive  broods  of  laughter; 
It  was  a  frail  and  dingy  thing, 
In  which  a  grinder  or  two  did  cling, 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  89 

In  color  like  molasses, 
Which  surgeons,  called  from  far  and  wide, 
Upon  the  horror  to  decide, 

Having  put  on  their  glasses, 
Reported  thus — "To  judge  by  looks, 
These  bones,  by  some  queer  hooks  or  crooks, 
May  have  belonged  to  Mr.  Snooks, 
But,  as  men  deepest  read  in  books 

Are  perfectly  aware,  bones, 
If  buried,  fifty  years  or  so, 
Lose  their  identity  and  grow 

From  human  bones  to  bare  bones." 

Still,  if  to  Jaalam  you  go  down, 
You'll  find  two  parties  in  the  town, 
One  headed  by  Benaiah  Brown, 

And  one  by  Perez  Tinkham ; 
The  first  believe  the  ghosts  all  through, 
And  vow  that  they  shall  never  rue 
The  happy  chance  by  which  they  knew 
That  people  in  Jupiter  are  blue, 
And  very  fond  of  Irish  stew, 
Two  curious  facts  when  Prince  Lee  Boo 
Rapped  clearly  to  a  chosen  few — 

Whereas  the  others  think  'em 
A  trick  got  up  by  Doctor  Slade 
With  Deborah  the  chamber-maid 

And  that  sly  cretur  Jenny, 
That  all  the  revelations  wise, 
At  which  the  Brownites  made  big  eyes, 
Might  have  been  given  by  Jared  Keyes, 

A  natural  fool  and  ninny. 
And,  last  week,  didn't  Eliab  Snooks, 
£ome  back  with  never  better  looks, 


90  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

As  sharp  as  new  bought  mackerel  hooks, 
And  bright  as  a  new  pin,  eh? 
Good  Parson  Wilbur,  too,  avers 
( Though  to  be  mixed  in  parish  stirs 
Is  worse  than  handling  chestnut-burs) 
That  no  case  to  his  mind  occurs 
Where  spirits  ever  did  converse 
Save  in  a  kind  of  guttural  Erse, 

(So  say  the  best  authorities;) 
And  that  a  charge  by  raps  conveyed, 
Should  be  most  scrupulously  weighed 

And  searched  into  before  it  is 
Made  public,  since  it  may  give  pain 
That  cannot  soon  be  cured  again, 
And  one  word  may  infix  a  stain 

Which  ten  cannot  gloss  over, 
Though  speaking  for  his  private  part, 
He  is  rejoiced  with  all  his  heart 

Miss  Knott  missed  not  her  lover. 
December,  1850. 


HAKON'S  LAY. 

Then  Thorstein  looked  at  Hakon,  where  he 

sate, 

Mute  as  a  cloud  amid  the  stormy  hall, 
And  said:  "O,  Skald,  sing  now  an  olden  song, 
Such  as  our  fathers  heard  who  led  great  lives ; 
And,  as  the  bravest  on  a  shield  is  borne 
Along  the  waving  host  that  shouts  him  king, 
So   rode    their  thrones  upon  the  thronging 

seas!" 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  91 

Then  the  old  man  arose,  white-haired  he  stood, 
White-bearded,  and  with  eyes  that  looked  afar 
From  their  still  region  of  perpetual  snow. 
Over  the  little  smokes  and  stirs  of  men : 
His  head  was  bowed  with  gathered  flakes  of 

years, 

As  winter  bends  the  sea-foreboding  pine, 
But  something  triumphed  in  his  brow  and  eye, 
Which  whoso  saw  it,  could  not  see  and  crouch : 
Loud  rang  the  emptied  beakers  as  he  mused, 
Brooding  his  eyried  thoughts;  then,  as  an  eagle 
Circles  smooth-winged  above  the  wind-vexed 

woods, 

So  wheeled  his  soul  into  the  air  of  song 
High  o'er  the  stormy  hall;  and  thus  he  sang: 

"The  fletcher  for  his  arrow-shaft  picks  out 
Wood  closest-grained,  long-seasoned,  straight 

as  light ; 

And,  from  a  quiver  full  of  such  as  these, 
The  wary  bow-man,  matched  against  his  peers, 
Long  doubting,  singles  yet  once  more  the  best. 
Who  is  it  that  can  make  such  shafts  as  Fate? 
What  archer  of  his  arrows  is  so  choice, 
Or  hits  the  white  so  surely?    They  are  men, 
The  chosen  of  her  quiver ;  nor  for  her 
Will  every  reed  suffice,  or  cross-grained  stick 
At  random  from  life's  vulgar  fagor  plucked: 
Such   answer    household  ends;    but  she   will 

have 
Souls  straight   and  clear,    of  toughest  fibre, 

sound 
Down  to  the  heart  of  heart;  from  these  she 

strips 


92  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

All  needless  stuff,  all  sapwood,  hardens  them, 
From  circumstance  untoward  feathers  plucks 
Crumpled  and  cheap,  and  barbs  with  iron  will : 
The  hour  that  passes  is  her  quiver-boy  ; 
When  she  draws  bow,  'tis  not  across  the  wind, 
Nor  'gainst  the  sun,  her  haste-snatched  arrow- 
sings, 

For  sun  and  wind  have  plighted  faith  to  her : 
Ere  men  have  heard  the  sinew  twang,  behold, 
In  the  butt's  heart  her  trembling  messenger! 

"The  song  is  old  and  simple  that  I  sing: 
Good  were  the  days  of  yore,  when  men  were 

tried 

By  ring  of  shields,  as  now  by  ring  of  gold ; 
But,  while  the  gods  are  left,  and  hearts  of  men, 
And  the  free  ocean,  still  the  days  are  good ; 
Through  the  broad  Earth  roams  Opportunity 
And  knocks  at  every  door  of  hut  or  hall, 
Until  she  finds  the  brave  soul  that  she  wants." 

He  ceased,  and  instantly  the  frothy  tide 
Of  interrupted  wassail  roared  along ; 
But  Leif,  the  son  of  Eric,  sat  apart 
Musing,  and,  with  his  eyes  upon  the  fire, 
Saw  shapes  of  arrows,  lost  as  soon  as  seen ; 
But  then  with  that  resolve  his  heart  was  bent, 
Which,   like  a  humming  shaft,  through  many 

a  strife 

Of  day  and  night  across  the  unventured  seas, 
Shot  the  brave  prow  to  cut  on  Vinland  sands 
The  first  rune  in  the  Saga  of  the  West. 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  98 


TO  THE  FUTURE. 

O,  Land  of  Promise!  from  what  Pisgah's  height 
Can  I  behold  thy  stretch  of  peaceful  bowers? 
Thy  golden  harvests  flowing  out  of  sight, 

Thy  nestled  homes  and  sun-illumined  towers 
Gazing  upon  the  sunset's  high-heaped  gold, 
Its  crags  of  opal  and  of  chrysolite, 
Its  deeps  on  deeps  of  glory  that  unfold 
Still  brightening  abysses, 
And  blazing  precipices, 
Whence  but  a  scanty  leap  it  seems  to  heaven, 

Sometimes  a  glimpse  is  given, 
Of     thy    more     gorgeous    realm,    thy    more 
unstinted  blisses. 

O,  Land  of  Quiet!  to  thy  shore  the  surf 

Of  the  perturbed  Present  rolls  and  sleeps ; 
Our  storms  breathe  soft  as  June  upon  thy  turf 
And  lure  out  blossoms ;  to  thy  bosom  leaps, 
As  to  a  mother's,  the  o'er  wearied  heart, 
Hearing  far  off  and  dim  the  toiling  mart, 
The  hurrying  feet,  the  curses  without  num 
ber. 

And,  circled  with  the  glow  Elysian, 
Of  thine  exulting  vision, 
Out  of  its  very  cares  wooes  charms  for  peace 
and  slumber. 


94  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

To  thee  the  Earth  lifts  up  her  fettered  hands 

And  cries  for  vengeance ;  with  a  pitying  smile 

Thou  blessest  her,  and  she  forgets  her  bands, 

And  her  old  wo-worn  face  a  little  while 

Grows   young     and    noble;    unto    thee    the 

Oppressor 

Looks,  and  is  dumb  with  awe ; 
The  eternal  law 
Which  makes  the   crime    its    own    blindfold 

redresser, 

Shadows  his  heart  with  perilous  foreboding, 
And  he  can  see  the  grim-eyed  Doom 
From  out  the  trembling  gloom 
Its    silent-footed    steeds    toward   his    palace 
goading. 

What  promises  hast  thou  for  Poet's  eyes, 
Aweary  of  the  turmoil  and  the  wrong! 
To  all  their  hopes  what  over-joyed  replies! 

What  undreamed  ecstasies  for  blissful  song! 
Thy  happy  plains  no  war-trump's    brawling 

clangor 

Disturbs,  and  fools  the  poor  to  hate  the  poor ; 

The  humble  glares  not  on  the  high  with  anger ; 

Love  leaves  no  grudge  at  less,  no  greed  for 

more; 
In  vain    strives   Self   the    godlike    sense  to 

smother. 

From  the  soul's  deeps 
It  throbs  and  leaps ; 

The  noble  'neath  foul  rags  beholds  his  long- 
lost  brother. 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  95 

To  thee  the  Martyr  looketh,  and  his  fires 

Unlock  their  fangs  and  leave  his  spirit  free ; 
To  thee  the  Poet  'mid  his  toil  aspires, 

And  grief  and  hunger  climb  about  his  knee 
Welcome  as  children ;  thou  upholdest. 

The  lone  Inventor  by  his  demon  haunted ; 
The  Prophet  cries  to   thee   when  hearts  are 

coldest, 
And,    gazing   o'er  the  midnight's    bleak 

abyss, 

Sees  the  drowsed  soul  awaken  at  thy  kiss, 
And  stretch  its  happy  arms  and  leap  up  disen 
chanted. 

Thou  bringest  vengeance,  but  so  loving  kindly 

The  guilty  thinks  it  pity ;  taught  by  thee 
Fierce  tyrants  drop  the  scourges  wherewith 

blindly 

Their  own  souls  they  were  scarring;  con 
querors  see 

With  horror  in  their  hands  the  accursed  spear 

That  tore  the  meek  One's  side  on  Cavalry, 

And  from  their  trophies  shrink  with  ghastly 

fear; 

Thou,  too,  art  the  Forgiver, 
The  beauty  of  man's  soul  to  man  revealing; 

The  arrows  from  thy  quiver 
Pierce  error's  guilty  heart,  but  only  pierce  for 
healing. 

O,  whither,  whither,  glory- winged  dreams, 
From  out  Life's  sweat  and  turmoil  would  ye 

bear  me? 
Shut,  gates  of  Fancy,  on  your  golden  gleams, 


96  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

This  agony  of  hopeless  contrast  spare  me! 
Fade,  cheating  glow,    and    leave   me  to  my 

night ! 

He  is  a  coward  who  would  borrow 
A  charm  against  the  present  sorrow 
From  the  vague  Future's  promise  of  delight: 
As  life's  alarums  nearer  roll, 
The  ancestral  buckler  calls, 
Self -clanging,  from  the  walls 
In  the  high  temple  of  the  soul ; 
Where    are    most    sorrows,   there  the  poet's 

sphere  is, 

To  feed  the  soul  with  patience, 
To  heal  its  desolations 

With  words  of  unshorn  truth,  with  love  that 
never  wearies. 


OUT  OF  DOORS. 

'Tis  good  to  be  abroad  in  the  sun, 
His  gifts  abide  when  day  is  done ; 
Each  thing  in  nature  from  his  cup 
Gathers  a  several  virtue  up ; 
The  grace  within  its  being's  reach 
Becomes  the  nutriment  of  each, 
And  the  same  life  imbibed  by  all 
Makes  each  most  individual ; 
Here  the  twig-bending  peaches  seek 
The  glow  that  mantles  in  their  cheek — 
Hence  comes  the  Indian-Summer  bloom 
That  hazes  round  the  basking  plum, 
And,  from  the  same  impartial  light, 
The  grass  sucks  green,  the  lily  white. 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  97 

Like  these  the  soul,  for  sunshine  made, 
Grows  wan  and  gracile  in  the  shade, 
Her  faculties,  which  God  decreed 
Various  as  Summer's  daedal  breed, 
With  one  sad  color  are  imbued, 
Shut  from  the  sun  that  tints  their  blood ; 
The  shadow  of  the  poet's  roof 
Deadens  the  dyes  of  warp  and  woof; 
Whate'er  of  ancient  song  remains 
Has  fresh  air  flowing  in  its  veins, 
For  Greece  and  eldest  Ind.  knew  well. 
That  out  of  doors,  with  world- wide  swell 
Arches  the  student's  lawful  cell. 

Away,  unfruitful  lore  of  books, 

For  whose  vain  idiom  we  reject 

The  spirit's  mother-dialect, 

Aliens  among  the  birds  and  brooks, 

Dull  to  interpret  or  believe 

What  gospels  lost  the  woods  retrieve, 

Or  what  the  eaves-dropping  violet 

Reports  from  God,  who  walketh  yet 

His  garden  in  the  hush  of  eve ! 

Away,  ye  pedants  city-bred, 

Unwise  of  heart,  too  wise  of  head, 

Who  handcuff  Art  with  thus  and  so, 

And  in  each  other's  footsteps  tread, 

Like  those  who  walk  through  drifted  snow ; 

Who,  from  deep  study  of  brick  walls, 
Conjecture  of  the  water-falls, 
By  six  square  feet  of  smoke-stained  sky 
Compute  those  deeps  that  overlie 
The  still  tarn's  heaven-anointed  eye, 

1   Lowell 


98  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

And,  in  your  earthen  crucible, 
With  chemic  tests  essay  to  spell 
How  nature  works  in  field  and  dell ! 
Seek  we  where  Shakespeare  buried  gold? 
Such  hands  no  charmed  witch-hazel  hold ; 
To  beach  and  rock  repeats  the  sea 
The  mystic  Open  Sesame ; 
Old  Greylock's  voices  not  in  vain 
Comment  cm  Milton's  mountain  strain, 
And  cunningly  the  various  wind 
Spenser's  locked  music  can  unbind. 


A  REVERIE. 

In  the  twilight  deep  and  silent 

Comes  thy  spirit  unto  mine, 

When  the  moonlight  and  the  starlight 

Over  cliff  and  woodland  shine, 

And  the  quiver  of  the  river 

Seems  a  thrill  of  joy  benign. 

Then  I  rise  and  wander  slowly 
To  the  headland  by  the  sea, 
When  the  evening  star  throbs  setting 
Through  the  cloudy  cedar  tree, 
And  from  under,  mellow  thunder 
Of  the  surf  comes  fitfully. 

Then  within  my  soul  I  feel  thee 
Like  a  gleam  of  other  years, 
Visions  of  my  childhood  murmur 
Their  old  madness  in  my  ears, 
Till  the  pleasance  of  thy  presence 
Cools  my  heart  with  blissful  tears. 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  99 

All  the  wondrous  dreams  of  boyhood — 

All  youth's  fiery  thirst  of  praise — 

All  the  surer  hopes  of  manhood 

Blossoming  in  sadder  days — 

Joys  that  bound  me,  griefs  that  crowned  me 

With  a  better  wreath  than  bays — 

All  the  longings  after  freedom — 
The  vague  love  of  human  kind, 
Wandering  far  and  near  at  random 
Like  a  winged  seed  in  the  wind — 
The  dim  yearnings  and  fierce  burnings 
Of  an  undirected  mind — 

All  of  these,  oh,  best  beloved, 
Happiest  present  dreams  and  past, 
In  thy  love  find  safe  fulfillment, 
Ripened  into  truth  at  last ; 
Faith  and  beauty,  hope  and  duty, 
To  one  center  gather  fast. 

How  my  nature,  like  an  ocean, 
At  the  breath  of  thine  awakes, 
Leaps  its  shores  in  mad  exulting 
And  in  foamy  thunder  breaks, 
Then  downsinking,  lieth  shrinking 
At  the  tumult  that  it  makes! 

Blazing  Hesperus  hath  sunken 
Low  within  the  pale-blue  west, 
And  with  golden  splendor  crowneth 
The  horizon's  piny  crest; 
Thoughtful  quiet  stills  the  riot 
Of  wild  longing  in  my  breast. 


100  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Home  I  loiter  through  the  moonlight, 
Underneath  the  quivering  trees, 
Which,  as  if  a  spirit  stirred  them.' 
Sway  and  bend,  till  by  degrees 
The  far  surge's  murmur  merges 
In  the  rustle  of  the  breeze. 


IN    SADNESS. 

There  is  not  in  this  life  of  ours 

One  bliss  unmixed  with  fears, 
The  hope  that  wakes  our  deepest  powers 

A  face  of  sadness  wears, 
And  the  dew  that  showers  our  dearest  flowers 

Is  the  bitter  dew  of  tears. 

Fame  waiteth  long,  and  lingereth 
Through  weary  nights  and  morns — 

And  evermore  the  shadow  Death 
With  mocking  finger  scorns 

That  underneath  the  laurel  wreath 
Should  be  a  wreath  of  thorns. 

The  ?aurel  leaves  are  cool  and  green, 
But  the  thorns  are  hot  and  sharp, 

Lean  Hunger  grins  and  stares  between 
The  poet  and  his  harp, 

Though  of  Love's  sunny  sheen  his  woof  have 

been 
Grim  wan  thrusts  in  the  warp. 

And  if  beyond  this  darksome  clime 

Some  fair  star  Hope  may  see, 
That  keeps  unjarred  the  blissful  chime 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  101 

Of  its  golden  infancy — 
Where  the  harvest-time  of  faith  sublime 
Not  always  is  to  be — 

Yet  would  the  true  soul  rather  choose 

Its  home  where  sorrow  is, 
Than  in  a  stated  peace  to  lose 

Its  life's  supremest  bliss — 
The  rainbow  hues  that  bend  profuse 

O'er  cloudy  spheres  like  this — 

The  want,  the  sorrow  and  the  pain, 

That  are  Love's  right  to  cure — 
The  sunshine  bursting  after  rain — 

The  gladness  insecure 
That  makes  us  fain  strong  hearts  to  gain, 

To  do  and  to  endure. 

High  natures  must  be  thunder- scarred 

With  many  a  searing  wrong; 
From  mother  Sorrow's  breasts  the  bard 

Sucks  gifts  of  deepest  song, 
Nor  all  unmarred  with  struggles  hard 

Wax  the  Soul's  sinews  strong. 

Dear  Patience,  too,  is  born  of  wo, 

Patience  that  opes  the  gate 
Wherethrough  the  soul  of  man  must  go 
Up  to  each  nobler  state, 
Whose  voice's  flow  so  meek  and  low 

Smooths  the  bent  brows  of  Fate. 

Though  Fame  be  slow,  yet  Death  is  swift, 

And'  o'er  the  spirit's  eyes, 
Life  after  life  doth  change  and  shift 

With  larger  destinies: 


102  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

As  on  we  drift,  some  wider  rift 
Shows  us  serener  skies. 

And  though  naught  falleth  to  us  here 

But  gains  the  world  counts  loss, 
Though  all  we  hope  of  wisdom  clear 

When  climbed  to  seems  but  dross, 
Yet  all,  though  ne'er  Christ's  faith  they  wear, 

At  least  may  share  his  cross. 


FAREWELL. 

Farewell !  as  the  bee  round  the  blossom 

Doth  murmur  drowsily, 

So  murmureth  round  my  bosom 

The  memory  of  thee ; 

Lingering,  it  seems  to  go, 

When  the  wind  more  full  doth  flow, 

Waving  the  flower  to  and  fro, 

But  still  returneth,  Marian ! 

My  hope  no  longer  burneth, 

Which  did  so  fiercely  burn, 

My  joy  to  sorrow  turneth, 

Although  loath,  loath  to  turn — 

I  would  forget — 

And  yet — and  yet 

My  heart  to  thee  still  yearneth,  Marian! 

Fair  as  a  single  star  thou  shinest, 

And  white  as  lilies  are 

The  slender  hands  wherewith  thou  twinest 

Thy  heavy  auburn  hair ; 

Thou  art  to  me 

A  memory 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  108 

Of  all  that  is  divinest : 
Thou  art  so  fair  and  tall, 
Thy  looks  so  queenly  are, 
Thy  very  shadow  on  the  wall, 
Thy  step  upon  the  stair, 
The  thought  that  thou  art  nigh, 
The  chance  look  of  thine  eye 
Are  more  to  me  than  all,  Marian, 
And  will  be  till  I  die! 

As  the  last  quiver  of  a  bell 

Doth  fade  into  the  air, 

With  a  subsiding  swell 

That  dies  we  know  not  where, 

So  my  hope  melted  and  was  gone: 

I  raised  mine  eyes  to  bless  the  star 

That  shared  its  light  with  me  so  far 

Below  its  silver  throne, 

And  gloom  and  chilling  vacancy 

Were  all  was  left  to  me, 

In  the  dark,  bleak  night  I  was  alone! 

Alone  in  the  blessed  Earth,  Marian, 

For  what  were  all  to  me — 

Its  love,  and  light,  and  mirth,  Marian, 

If  I  were  not  with  thee? 

My  heart  will  not  forget  thee 
More  than  the  moaning  brine 
Forgets  the  moon  when  she  is  set; 
The  gush  when  first  I  met  thee 
That  thrilled  my  brain  like  wine, 
Doth  thrill  as  madly  yet ; 
My  heart  cannot  forget  thee, 
Though  it  may  droop  and  pine, 


104  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Too  deeply  it  had  set  thee 

In  every  love  of  mine ; 

No  new  moon  ever  cometh, 

No  flower  ever  bloometh, 

No  twilight  ever  gloometh 

But  I'm  more  only  thine. 

Oh,  look  not  on  me,  Marian, 

Thine  eyes  are  wild  and  deep, 

And  they  have  won  me,  Marian, 

From peacef ulness  and  sleep; 

The  sunlight  doth  not  sun  me, 

The  meek  moonshine  doth  shun  me, 

All  sweetest  voices  stun  me — 

There  is  no  rest 

Within  my  breast 

And  I  can  only  weep,  Marian ! 

As  a  landbird  far  at  sea 

Doth  wander  through  the  sleet 

And  drooping  downward  wearily 

Finds  no  rest  for  her  feet, 

So  wandereth  my  memory, 

O'er  the  years  when  we  did  meet: 

I  used  to  say  that  everything 

Partook  a  share  of  thee ; 

That  not  a  little  bird  could  sing, 

Or  green  leaf  flutter  on  a  tree, 

That  nothing  could  be  beautiful 

Save  part  of  thee  were  there, 

That  from  thy  soul  so  clear  and  full 

All  bright  and  blessed  things  did  cull 

The  charm  to  make  them  fair ; 

And  now  I  know 

That  it  was  so, 

Thy  spirit  through  the  earth  doth  flow 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  105 

And  face  me  wheresoe'er  I  go — 
What  right  hath  perfectness  to  give 
Such  weary  weight  of  wo 
Unto  the  soul  which  cannot  live 
On  anything  more  low? 

0  leave  me,  leave  me,  Marian, 
There's  no  fair  thing  I  see 
But  doth  deceive  me,  Marian, 
Into  sad  dreams  of  thee ! 

A  cold  snake  gnaws  my  heart 

And  crushes  round  my  brain, 

And  I  should  glory  but  to  part 

So  bitterly  again, 

Feeling  the  slow  tears  start 

And  fall  in  fiery  rain : 

There's  a  wide  ring  round  the  moon, 

The  ghost-like  clouds  glide  by, 

And  I  hear  the  sad  winds  croon 

A  dirge  to  the  lowering  sky ; 

There's  nothing  soft  or  mild 

In  the  pale  moon's  sickly  light, 

But  all  looks  strange  and  wild 

Through  the  dim,  foreboding  night; 

1  think  thou  must  be  dead 

In  some  dark  and  lonely  place, 

With  candles  at  thy  head, 

And  a  pall  above  thee  spread 

To  hide  thy  dead,  cold  face ; 

But  I  can  see  thee  underneath 

So  pale,  and  still,  and  fair, 

Thine  eyes  closed  smoothly  and  a  wreath 

Of  flowers  in  thy  hair; 

I  never  saw  thy  face  so  clear 

When  thou  wast  with  the  living, 


106  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

As  now  beneath  the  pall,  so  drear, 

And  stiff,  and  unforgiving; 

I  cannot  flee  thee,  Marian, 

I  cannot  turn  away, 

Mine  eyes  must  see  thee,  Marian, 

Through  salt  tears  night  and  day. 


A    DIRGE. 

Poet!  lonely  is  thy  bed, 
And  the  turf  is  overhead — 

Cold  earth  is  thy  cover ; 
But  thy  heart  hath  found  release, 
And  it  slumbers  full  of  peace 
'Neath  the  rustle  of  green  trees 
And  the  warm  hum  of  the  bees, 

'Mid  the  drowsy  clover; 
Through  the  chamber,  still  as  death, 
A  smooth  gurgle  wandereth, 
As  the  blue  stream  murmureth 

To  the  blue  sky  over. 

Three  paces  from  the  silver  strand, 
Gently  in  the  fine,  white  sand, 
With  a  lily  in  thy  hand, 

Pale  as  snow,  they  laid  thee ; 
In  no  coarse  earth  wast  thou  hid, 
And  no  gloomy  coffin-lid 

Darkly  overweighed  thee. 
Silently  as  snow-flakes  drift, 
The  smooth  sand  did  sift  and  sift 

O'er  the  bed  they  made  thee ; 
All  sweet  birds  did  come  and  sing 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  107 

At  thy  sunny  burying — 

Choristers  unbidden, 
And,  beloved  of  sun  and  dew. 
Meek  forget-me-nots  upgrew 
Where  thine  eyes  so  large  and  blue 

'Neath  the  turf  were  hidden. 

Where  thy  stainless  clay  doth  lie, 
Blue  and  open  is  the  sky, 
And  the  white  clouds  wander  by, 
Dreams  of  summer  silently 

Darkening  the  river ; 
Thou  hearest  the  clear  water  run ; 
And  the  ripples  every  one, 
Scattering  the  golden  sun, 

Though  thy  silence  quiver; 
Vines  trail  down  upon  the  stream, 
Into  its  smooth  and  glassy  dream 

A  green  stillness  spreading, 
And  the  shiner,  perch,  and  bream 
Through  the  shadowed  waters  gleam 

'Gainst  the  current  heading. 

White  as  snow,  thy  winding  sheet 
Shelters  thee  from  head  to  feet, 

Save  thy  pale  face  only ; 
Thy  face  is  turned  toward  the  skies, 
The  lids  lie  meekly  o'er  thine  eyes, 
And  the  low-voiced  pine-tree  sighs 

O'er  thy  bed  so  lonely. 
All  thy  life  thou  lov'dst  its  shade; 
Underneath  it  thou  art  laid, 

In  an  endless  shelter; 
Thou  hearest  it  forever  sigh 


108  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

As  the  wind's  vain  longings  die 
In  its  branches  dim  and  high — 
Thou  hear'st  the  waters  gliding  by 
Slumberously  welter. 

Thou  wast  full  of  love  and  truth, 

Of  forgiveness  and  ruth — 

Thy  great  heart  with  hope  and  youth 

Tided  to  o'erfl  owing. 
Thou  didst  dwell  in  mysteries, 
And  there  lingered  on  thine  eyes 
Shadows  of  serener  skies. 
Awfully  wild  memories, 

That  were  like  foreknowing; 
Through  the  earth  thou  wouldst  have  gone. 
Lighted  from  within  alone, 
Seeds  from  flowers  in  Heaven  grown 

With  a  free  hand  sowing. 

Thou  didst  remember  well  and  long 

Some  fragments  of  thine  angel- song, 

And  strive,  through  want  and  wo  and  wrong 

To  win  the  world  unto  it ; 
Thy  sin  it  was  to  see  and  hear 
Beyond  To-day's  dim  atmosphere — 
Beyond  all  mists  of  hope  and  fear, 
Into  a  life  more  true  and  clear, 

And  dearly  thou  didst  rue  it ; 
Light  of  the  new  world  thou  hadst  won, 
O'erflooded  by  a  purer  sun — 
Slowly  Fate's  ship  came  drifting  on, 
And  through  the  dark,  save  thou,  not  one 

Caught  of  the  land  a  token. 
Thou  stood'st  upon  the  farthest  prow, 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  109 

Something  within  thy  soul  said  "Now!" 
And  leaping  forth  with  eager  brow, 
Thou  fell'st  on  shore  heart-broken. 

Long  time  thy  brethren  stood  in  fear; 
Only  the  breakers  far  and  near, 
White  with  their  anger,  they  could  hear ; 
The  sounds  of  land,  which  thy  quick  ear 

Caught  long  ago,  they  heard  not. 
And,  when  at  last  they  reached  the  strand, 
They  found  thee  lying  on  the  sand 
With  some  wild  flowers  in  thy  hand, 

But  thy  cold  bosom  stirred  not ; 
They  listened,  but  they  heard  no  sound 
Save  from  the  glad  life  all  around 

A  low,  contented  murmur. 
The  long  grass  flowed  adown  the  hill, 
A  hum  rose  from  a  hidden  rill, 
But  thy  glad  heart,  which  knew  no  ill 
But  too  much  love,  lay  dead  and  still — 
The  only  thing  that  sent  a  chill 

Into  the  heart  of  summer. 

Thou  di'dst  not  seek  the  poet's  wreath 

But  too  soon  didst  win  it ; 
Without  'twas  green,  but  underneath 
Were  scorn  and  loneliness  and  death, 
Gnawing  the  brain  with  burning  teeth, 

And  making  mock  within  it. 
Thou,  who  wast  full  of  nobleness, 
Whose  very  life-blood  'twas  to  bless, 

Whose  soul's  one  law  was  giving, 
Must  bandy  words  with  wickedness, 
Haggle  with  hunger  and  distress, 


110  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

To  win  that  death  which  worldliness 
Calls  bitterly  a  living. 

"Thou  sow'st  no  gold,  and  shalt  not  reap!" 
Muttered  earth,  turning  in  her  sleep; 
"Come  home  to  the  Eternal  Deep!" 
Murmured  a  voice,  and  a  wide  sweep 
Of  wings  through  thy  soul's  hush  did  creep, 

As  of  thy  doom  o'erflying; 
It  seem'd  that  thy  strong  heart  would  leap 
Out  of  thy  breast,  and  thou  didst  weep, 

But  not  with  fear  of  dying; 
Men  could  not  fathom  thy  deep  fears, 
They  could  not  understand  thy  tears, 
The  hoarded  agony  of  years 

Of  bitter  self-denying. 
So  once,  when  high  above  the  spheres 
Thy  spirit  sought  its  starry  peers, 
It  came  not  back  to  face  the  jeers 

Of  brothers  who  denied  it ; 
Star-crowned,  thou  dost  possess  the  deeps 
Of  God,  and  thy  white  body  sleeps 
Where  the  lone  pine  forever  keeps 

Patient  watch  beside  it. 

Poet!  underneath  the  turf, 

Soft  thou  sleepest,  free  from  morrow, 
Thou  hast  struggled  through  the  surf 

Of  wild  thoughts  and  want  and  sorrow. 
Now,  beneath  the  moaning  pine, 

Full  of  rest,  thy  body  lieth, 
While  far  up  is  clear  sunshine, 
Underneath  a  sky  divine, 

Her  loosed  wings  thy  spirit  trieth ; 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  Ill 

Oft  she  strove  to  spread  them  here, 
But  they  were  too  white  and  clear 
For  our  dingy  atmosphere. 

Thy  body  findeth  ample  room 
In  its  still  and  grassy  tomb 

By  the  silent  river ; 
But  thy  spirit  found  the  earth 
Narrow  for  the  mighty  birth 

Which  it  dreamed  of  ever; 
Thou  wast  guilty  of  a  rhyme 
Learned  in  a  benigner  clime, 
And  of  that  more  grievous  crime, 
An  ideal  too  sublime 

For  the  low-hung  sky  of  Time. 

The  calm  spot  where  thy  body  lies 
Gladdens  thy  soul  in  Paradise, 

It  is  so  still  and  holy ; 
Thy 'body  sleeps  serenely  there, 
And  well  for  it  thy  soul  may  care, 
It  was  so  beautiful  and  fair, 

Lily  white  so  wholly. 

From  so  pure  and  sweet  a  frame 
Thy  spirit  parted  as  it  came, 

Gentle  as  a  maiden ; 
Now  it  lieth  full  of  rest — 
Sods  are  lighter  on  its  breast 
Than  the  great,  prophetic  guest 

Wherewith  it  was  laden. 


112  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 


FANCIES    ABOUT   A   ROSEBUD, 

PRESSED  IN  AN  OLD  COPY  OF  SPENSER. 

Who  prest  you  here?    The  Past  can  tell, 
When  summer  skies  were  bright  above, 

And  some  full  heart  did  leap  and  swell 
Beneath  the  white  new  moon  of  love. 

Some  Poet,  haply,  when  the  world 
.  Showed  like  a  calm  sea,  grand  and  blue, 

Ere  its  cold,  inky  waves  had  curled 
O'er  the  numb  heart  once  warm  and  true; 

When,  with  his  soul  brimful  of  morn, 
He  looked  beyond  the  vale  of  Time, 

Nor  saw  therein  the  dullard  scorn 
That  made  his  heavenliness  a  crime ; 

When,  musing  o'er  the  Poets  olden, 

His  soul  did  like  a  sun  upstart 
To  shoot  its  arrows,  clear  and  golden, 

Through  slavery's  cold  and  darksome  heart. 

Alas !  too  soon  the  veil  is  lifted 

That  hangs  between  the  soul  and  pain, 

Too  soon  the  morning-red  hath  drifted 
Into  dull  cloud,  or  fallen  in  rain! 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  113 

Or  were  you  prest  by  one  who  nurst 

Bleak  memories  of  love  gone  by, 
Whose  heart,  like  a  star  fallen,  burst 

In  dark  and  erring  vacancy? 

To  him  you  still  were  fresh  and  green 
As  when  you  grew  upon  the  stalk, 

And  many  a  breezy  summer  scene 

Came  back — and  many  a  moonlit  walk; 

And  there  would  be  a  hum  of  bees, 

A  smell  of  childhood  in  the  air, 
And  old,  fresh  feelings  cooled  the  breeze 

That,  like  loved  fingers,  stirred  his  hair. 

Then  would  you  suddenly  be  blasted 
By  the  keen  wind  of  one  dark  thought, 

One  nameless  woe,  that  had  outlasted 
The  sudden  blow  whereby  'twas  brought. 

Or  were  you  pressed  here  by  two  lovers 
Who  seemed  to  read  these  verses  rare, 

But  found  between  the  antique  covers 
What  Spenser  could  not  prison  there: 

Songs  which  his  glorious  soul  had  heard, 
But  his  dull  pen  could  never  write, 

Which  flew,  like  some  gold- winged  bird, 
Through  the  blue  heaven  out  of  sight? 

My  heart  is  with  them  as  they  sit, 

I  see  the  rosebud  in  her  breast, 
I  see  her  small  hand  taking  it 

From  out  its  odorous,  snowy  nest; 

8    Lowell 


114  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

I  hear  him  swear  that  he  will  keep  it 

In  memory  of  that  blessed  day, 
To  smile  on  it  or  over- weep  it 

When  she  and  spring  are  far  away. 

Ah  me!     I  needs  must  droop  my  headf 

And  brush  away  a  happy  tear, 
For  they  are  gone,  and,  dry  and  dead, 

The  rosebud  lies  before  me  here. 

Yet  is  it  no  stranger's  hand, 

For  I  will  guard  it  tenderly, 
And  it  shall  be  a  magic  wand 

To  bring  mine  own  true  love  to  me. 

My  heart  runs  o'er  with  sweet  surmises, 
The  while  my  fancy  weaves  her  rhyme, 

Kind  hopes  and  musical  surprises 
Throng  round  me  from  the  olden  time. 

I  do  not  care  to  know  who  prest  you: 
Enough  for  me  to  feel  and  know 

That  some  heart's  love  and  longing  blest  you, 
Knitting  to-day  with  long-ago. 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE,  1844. 

A   FRAGMENT. 

The  night  is  calm  and  beautiful ;  the  snow 
Sparkles  beneath  the  clear  and  frosty  moon 
And  the  cold  stars,  as  if  it  took  delight 
In  its  own  silent  whiteness;  the  hushed  earth 
Sleeps  in  the  soft  arms  of  the  embracing  blue, 


LOWELL'S  POEMS,  115 

Secure  as  if  angelic  squadrons  yet 

Encamped  about  her,  and  each  watching  star 

Gained  double   brightness  from   the  flashing 

arms 

Of  winged  and  unsleeping  sentinels. 
Upward  the  calm  of  infinite  silence  deepens, 
The  sea  that  flows  between  high  heaven  and 

earth, 
Musing  by  whose  smooth  brink  we  sometimes 

find 

A  stray  leaf  floated  from  those  happier  shores, ' 
And  hope,  perchance  not  vainly,   that  some 

flower, 

Which  we  had  watered  with  our  holiest  tears, 
Pale  blooms,  and  yet  our  scanty  garden's  best, 
O'er  the  same  ocean  piloted  by  love, 
May  find  a  haven  at  the  feet  of  God, 
And  be  not  wholly  worthless  in  his  sight. 

O,  high  dependence  on  a  higher  Power, 
Sole  stay  for  all  these  restless  faculties 
That  wander,  Ishmael-like,  the  desert  bare 
Wherein  our  human  knowledge  hath  its  home, 
Shifting  their  light-framed  tents  from  day  to 

day, 

With  each  new-found  oasis,  wearied  soon, 
And  only  certain  of  uncertainty! 
O,  mighty  humbleness  that  feels  with  awe, 
Yet  with  a  vast  exulting  feels,  no  less, 
That  this  huge  Minister  of  the  Universe, 
Whose  smallest  oratories  are  glorious  worlds, 
With  painted  oriels  of  dawn  and  sunset; 
Whose  carved  ornaments  are  systems  grand, 
Orion  kneeling  in  his  starry  niche, 


116  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

The  Lyre  whose  strings  give  music  audible 
To  holy  ears,  and  countless  splendors  more, 
Crowned  by  the  blazing  Cross  high-hung  o'er 

all; 

Whose  organ  music  is  the  solemn  stops 
Of  endless  Change  breathed  through  by  end 
less  Good ; 

Whose  choristers  are  all  the  morning  stars; 
Whose  altar  is  the  sacred  human  heart 
Whereon  Love's  candles  burn  unquenchably, 
Trimmed    day    and   night   by  gentle-handed 

Peace ; 

With  all  its  arches  and  its  pinnacles 
That  stretch  forever  and  forever  up, 
Is  founded  on  the  silent  heart  of  God, 
Silent,  yet  pulsing  forth  exhaustless  life 
Through  the  least  veins  of  all  created  things. 

Fit  musings  these  for  the  departing  year ; 

And  God  be  thanked  for  such  a  crystal  night 

As  fills  the  spirit  with  good  store  of  thoughts, 

That,  like  a  cheering  fire  of  walnut,  crackle 

Upon  the  hearthstone  of  the  heart,  and  cast 

A  mild  home-glow  o'er  all  Humanity! 

Yes,  though  the  poisoned  shafts  of  evil  doubts 

Assail  the  skyey  panoply  of  Faith, 

Though  the  great  hopes  which  we  have  had 

for  man, 

Foes  in  disguise,  because  they  based  belief 
On  man's  endeavor,  not  on  God's  decree — 
Though  these  proud- visaged  hopes,  once  turned 

to  fly, 

Hurl  backward  many  a  deadly  Parthian  dart 
That  rankles  in  the  soul  and  makes  it  sick 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  117 

With  vain  regret,  nigh  verging  on  despair — 

Yet,  in  such  calm  and  earnest  hours  as  this, 

We  well  can  feel  how  every  living  heart 

That  sleeps  to-night  in  palace  or  in  cot, 

Or  unroofed  hovel,  or  which  need  hath  known 

Of  other  homestead  than  the  arching  sky, 

Is  circled  watchfully  with  seraph  fires ; 

How  our  own  erring  will  it  that  hangs 

The  flaming  sword  o'er  Eden's  unclosed  gate, 

Which  gives  free  entrance  to  the  pure  in  heart 

And  with  its  guarding  walls  doth  fence  the 

meek. 
Sleep   then,    O    Earth,    in    thy    blue-vaulted 

cradle, 

Bsnt  over  always  by  thy  mother  Heaven ! 
We  rvre  all  tall  enough  to  reach  God's  hand, 
And  angols  are  no  taller ;  looking  back 
Upon  the  smooth  wake  of  a  year  o'er  past, 
We  see  the  black  clouds  furling,  one  by  one, 
From  the  advancing  majesty  of  Truth, 
And  something  won  for  Freedom,  whose  least 

gain 

Is  as  a  firm  and  rock-built  citadel 
Wherefrom  to  launch  fresh  battle  on  her  foes; 
Or,  leaning  from  the  time's  extremest  prow, 
If  we  gaze  forward  through  the  blending  spray, 
And  dimly  see  how  much  of  ill  remains, 
How  many  fetters  to  be  sawn  asunder 
By  the  slow  toil  of  individual  zeal, 
Or  haply  rusted  by  salt  tears  in  twain, 
We  feel,  with  something  of  a  sadder  heart, 
Yet  bracing'  up  our  bruised  mail  the  while, 
And  fronting  the  old  foe  with  fresher  spirit, 
How  great  it  fe  to  breathe  with  human  breath, 


118  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

To  be  but  poor  foot-soldiers  in  the  ranks 
Of  our  old  exiled  king,  Humanity; 
Encamping  after  every  hard-won  field 
Nearer  and  nearer  Heaven's  happy  plains. 

Many  great  souls  have  gone  to  rest,  and  sleep 
Under  this  armor,  free  and  full  of  peace : 
If  these  have  left  the  earth,  yet  Truth  remains, 
Endurance,  too,  the  crowning  faculty 
Of  noble  minds,  and  Love,  invincible 
By  any  weapons;  and  these  hem  us  round 
With  silence  such  that  all  the  groaning  clank 
Of  this  mad  engine  men  have  made  of  earth 
Dulls  not  some  ears  for  catching  purer  tones, 
That  wander  from  the  dim  surrounding  vast, 
Or  far  more  clear  melodious  prophecies, 
The  natural  music  of  the  heart  of  man, 
Which  by  kind  Sorrow's  ministry  hath  learned 
That  the  true  sceptre  of  all  power  is  love 
And  humbleness  the  palace-gate  of  truth. 
What  man  with  soul  so  blind  as  sees  not  here 
The  first  faint  tremble  of  Hope's  morning-star, 
Foretelling  how  the  God-forged  shafts  of  dawn, 
Fitted  already  on  their  golden  string, 
Shall  soon  leap  earthward  with  exulting  flight 
To  thrid  the  dark  heart  of  that  evil  faith 
Whose  trust  is  in  the  clumsy  arms  of  Force, 
The  ozier  hauberk  of  a  ruder  age? 
Freedom !  thou  other  name  for  happy  Truth, 
Thou  warrior-maid,  whose  steel-clad  feet  were 

never 

Out  of  the  stirrup,  nor  thy  lance  uncouched, 
Nor  thy  fierce  eye  enticed  from  its  watch, 
Thou  hast  learned  now,  by  hero-blood  in  vain 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  ,   119 

Poured  to  enrich  the  soil  which  tyrants  reap ; 
By  wasted  lives  of  prophets,  and  of  those 
Who,  by  the  promise  in  their  souls  upheld, 
Into  the  red  arms  of  a  fiery  death 
Went  blithely  as  the  golden-girdled  bee 
Sinks  in  the  sleepy  poppy's  cup  of  flame ; 
By  the  long  woes  of  nations  set  at  war, 
That  so  the  swollen  torrent  of  their  wrath 
May  find  a  vent,  else  sweeping  off  like  straws 
The  thousand  cobweb  threads,   grown  cable- 
huge 
By  time's  long  gathered  dust,   but  cobwebs 

still, 

Which  bind  the  Many  that  the  Few  may  gain 
Leisure  to  wither  by  the  drought  of  ease 
What  heavenly  germs  in  their  own  souls  were 

sown ; — 
By    all    these    searching    lessons     thou    hast 

learned 
To  throw  aside   thy  blood-stained  helm  and 

spear 
And  with  thy  bare  brow  daunt  the  enemy's 

front, 

Knowing  that  God  will  make  the  lily  stalk, 
In  the  soft  grasp  of  naked  Gentleness, 
Stronger  than  iron  "spear  to  shatter  through 
The    sevenfold    toughness    of    Wrong's    idle 

shield. 


120  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 


A  MYSTICAL  BALLAD. 


The  sunset  scarce  had  dimmed  away 
Into  the  twilight's  doubtful  gray; 
One  long  cloud  o'er  the  horizon  lay, 
'Neath  which,  a  streak  of  bluish  white, 
Wavered  between  the  day  and  night ; 
Over  the  pine  trees  on  the  hill 
The  trembly  evening-star  did  thrill 
And  the  new  moon,  with  slender  rim, 
Through  the  elm  arches  gleaming  dim, 
Filled  memory's  chalice  to  the  brim. 

ii. 

On  such  an  eve  the  heart  doth  grow 

Full  of  surmise,  and  scarce  can  know 

If  it  be  now  or  long  ago, 

Or  if  indeed  it  doth  exist ;— • 

A  wonderful  enchanted  mist 

From  the  new  moon  doth  wander  out, 

Wrapping  all  things  in  mystic  doubt, 

So  that  this  world  doth  seem  untrue, 

And  all  our  fancies  to  take  hue 

From  some  life  ages  since  gone  through. 

in. 

The  maiden  sat  and  heard  the  flow 
Of  the  west  wjnd  so  soft  and  low 


LOWELL'S   POEMS.  121 

The  leaves  scarce  quivered  to  and  fro; 
Unbound,  her  heavy  golden  hair 
Rippled  across  her  bosom  bare, 
Which  gleamed  with  thrilling  snowy  white 
Far  through  the  magical  moonlight: 
The  breeze  rose  with  a  rustling  swell, 
And  from  afar  there  came  the  smell 
Of  a  long-forgotten  lily-bell. 

IV. 

The  dim  moon  rested  on  the  hill, 
But  silent,  without  thought  or  will, 
Where  sat  the  dreamy  maiden  still ; 
And  now  the  moon's  tip,  like  a  star, 
Drew  down  below  the  horizon's  bar; 
To  her  black  noon  the  night  hath  grown, 
Yet  still  the  maiden  sits  alone, 
Pale  as  a  corpse  beneath  a  stream 
And  her  white  bosom  still  doth  gleam 
Through  the  deep  midnight  like  a  dream. 

v. 

Cloudless  the  morning  came  and  fair, 

And  lavishly  the  sun  doth  share 

His  gold  among  her  golden  hair, 

Kindling  it  all,  till  slowly  so 

A  glory  round  her  head  doth  glow ; 

A  withered  flower  is  in  her  hand, 

That  grew  in  some  far  distant  land, 

And,  silently  transfigured, 

With  wide  calm  eyes,  and  undrooped  head, 

They  found  the  stranger-maiden  dead. 


2  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

VI. 

A  youth,  that  morn,  'neath  other  skies, 
Felt  sudden  tears  burn  in  his  eyes, 
And  his  heart  throng  with  memories; 
All  things  without  him  seemed  to  win 
Strange  brotherhood  with  things  within, 
And  he  forever  felt  that  he 
Walked  in  the  midst  of  mystery, 
And  thenceforth,  why,  he  could  not  tell, 
His  heart  would  curdle  at  the  smell 
Of  his  once-cherished  lily-bell. 

VII. 

Something  from  him  had  passed  away ; 
Some  shifting  trembles  of  clear  day, 
T'hrough  starry  crannies  in  his  clay, 
Grew  bright  and  steadfast,  more  and  more, 
Where  all  had  been  dull  earth  before ; 
And,  through  these  chinks,  like  him  of  old, 
His  spirit  converse  high  did  hold 
With  clearer  loves  and  wider  powers, 
That  brought  him  dewy  fruits  and  flowers 
From  far  Elysian  groves  and  bowers. 

VIII. 

Just  on  the  farther  bound  of  sense, 
Unproved  by  outward  evidence, 
But  known  by  deep  influence 
Which  through  our  grosser  clay  doth  shine 
With  light  unwaning  and  divine, 
Beyond  where  highest  thought  can  fly 
Stretcheth  the  world  of  Mystery — 
they  not  greatly  overween 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  123 

Who  deem  that  nothing  true  hath  been 
Save  the  unspeakable  Unseen. 

IX. 

One  step  beyond  life's  work-day  things, 
One  more  beat  of  the  soul's  broad  wings, 
One  deeper  sorrow  sometimes  brings 
The  spirit  into  that  great  Vast 
Where  neither  future  is  nor  past ; 
None  knoweth  how  he  entered  there, 
But,  waking,  finds  his  spirit  where 
He  thought  an  angel   could  not  soar, 
And,  what  he  called  false  dreams  before 
The  very  air  about  his  door. 


TLese  outward  seemings  are  but  shows 

Whereby  the  body  sees  and  knows; 

Far  down  beneath,  forever  flows 

A  stream  of  subtlest  sympathies 

That  make  our  spirits  strangely  wise 

In  awe,  and  fearful  bodings  dim 

Which,  from  the  sense's  outer  rim, 

Stretch  forth  beyond  our  thought  and  sight, 

Fine  arteries  of  circling  light, 

Pulsed  outward  from  the  Infinite. 


124  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 


OPENING    POEM   TO 

A  YEAR'S  LIFE. 

Hope  first  the  youthful  Poet  leads, 
And  he  is  glad  to  follow  her ; 
Kind  is  she,  and  to  all  his  needs 
With  a  free  hand  doth  minister. 

But,  when  sweet  Hope  at  last  hath  fled, 
Cometh  her  sister,  Memory ; 
She  wreaths  Hope's  garlands  round  her  head, 
And  strives  to  seem  as  fair  as  she. 

Then  Hope  comes  back,  and  by  the  hand 
She  leads  a  child  most  fair  to  see, 
Who  with  a  joyous  face  doth  stand 
Uniting  Hope  and  Memory. 

So  brighter  grew  the  Earth  around, 
And  bluer  grew  the  sky  above; 
The  Poet  now  is  guide  hath  found, 
And  follows  in  the  steps  of  Love. 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  125 


DEDICATION 

TO  VOLUME  OF  POEMS  ENTITLED 

A  YEAR'S  LIFE. 

The  gentle  Una  I  have  loved, 

The  snowy  maiden,  pure  and  mild 

Since  ever  by  her  side  I  roved, 

Through  ventures  strange,  a  wondering  child, 

In  fantasy  a  Red  Cross  Knight, 

Burning  for  her  dear  sake  to  fight 

If  there  be  one  who  can,  like  her, 
Make  sunshine  in  life's  shady  places, 
One  in  whose  holy  bosom  stir 
As  many  gentle  household  graces — 
And  such  I  think  there  needs  must  be — 
Will  she  accept  this  book  from  me? 


THRENODIA. 

Gone,  gone  from  us !  and  shall  we  see 

Those  sybil-leaves  of  destiny, 

Those  calm  eyes,  nevermore? 

Those  deep,  dark  eyes  so  warm  and  bright, 

Wherein  the  fortunes  of  the  man 

Lay  slumbering  in  prophetic  light, 

In  characters  a  child  might  scan? 


126  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

So  bright,  and  gone  forth  utterly? 
O  stern  word — Nevermore ! 

The  stars  of  those  two  gentle  eyes 
Will  shine  no  more  on  earth ; 
Quenched  are  the  hopes  that  had  their  birth, 
As  we  watched  them  slowly  rise, 
Stars  of  a  mother's  fate; 
And  she  would  read  them  o'er  and  o'er, 
Pondering,  as  she  sate, 
Over  their  dear  astrology, 
Which  she  had  conned  and  conned  before, 
Deeming  she  needs  must  read  aright 
What  was  writ  so  passing  bright. 
And  yet,  alas !  she  knew  not  why, 
Her  voice  would  falter  in  its  song, 
And  tears  would  slide  from  out  her  eye, 
Silent,  as  they  were  doing  wrong. 
Her  heart  was  like  a  windflower,  bent 
Even  to  breaking  with  the  balmy  dew, 
Turning  its  heavenly  nourishment 
(That  filled  with  tears  its  eyes  of  blue, 
Like  a  sweet  suppliant  that  weeps  in  prayer, 
Making  her  innocency  show  more  fair 
Albeit  unwitting  of  the  ornament,) 
Into  a  load  too  great  for  it  to  bear: 

0  stern  word — Nevermore ! 

The  tongue,  that  scarce  had  learned  to  claim 
An  entrance  to  a  mother's  heart 
By  that  dear  talisman,  a  mother's  name, 
Sleeps  all  forgetful  of  its  art! 

1  loved  to  see  the  infant  soul 
(How  mighty  in  the  weakness 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  127 

Of  its  untutored  meekness!) 

Peep  timidly  from  out  its  nest, 

His  lips,  the  while, 

Fluttering  with  half-fledged  words, 

Or  hushing  to  a  smile 

That  more  than  words  expressed, 

When  his  glad  mother  on  him  stole 

And  snatched  him  to  her  breast ! 

O,  thoughts  were  brooding  in  those  eyes, 

That  would  have  soared  like   strong-winged 

birds 

Far,  far  into  the  skies, 
Gladdening  the  earth  with  song 
And  gushing  harmonies, 
Had  he  but  tarried  with  us  long! 
O  stern  word — Nevermore ! 

How  peacefully  they  rest, 
Crossfolded  there 
Upon  his  little  breast, 
Those  small,  white  hands  that  ne'er  were  still 

before, 

But  ever  sported  with  his  mother's  hair, 
Or  the  plain  cross  that  on  her  breast  she  wore? 
Her  heart  no  more  will  beat 
To  feel  the  touch  of  that  soft  palm, 
That  ever  seemed  a  new  surprise 
Sending  glad  thoughts  up  to  her  eyes 
To  bless  him  with  their  holy  calm — 
Sweet  thoughts !  they  made  her  eyes  as  sweet 
How  quiet  are  the  hands 
That  wove  those  pleasant  bands! 
But  that  they  do  not  rise  and  sink 
With  his  calm  breathing,  I  should  think 


128  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

That  he  were  dropped  asleep ; 

Alas!  too  deep,  too  deep 

Is  this  his  slumber ! 

Time  scarce  can  number 

The  years  ere  he  will  wake  again — 

O,  may  we  see  his  eyelids  open  then! 

O  stern  word — Nevermore! 

As  the  airy  gossamere, 
Floating  in  the  sunlight  clear, 
Where'er  it  toucheth  clinging  tightly 
Round  glossy  leaf  or  stump  unsightly, 
So  from  his  spirit  wandered  out 
Tendrils  spreading  all  about, 
Knitting  all  things  to  its  thrall 
With  a  perfect  love  of  all: 
O  stern  word — Nevermore! 

He  did  but  float  a  little  way 
Adown  the  stream  of  time, 
With  dreamy  eyes  watching  the  ripples  play, 
Or  listening  to  their  fairy  chime; 
His  slender  sail 
Ne'er  felt  the  gale; 
He  did  but  float  a  little  way, 
And,  putting  to  the  shore 
While  yet  't  was  early  day, 
Went  calmly  on  his  way, 
To  dwell  with  us  no  more ! 
No  jarring  did  he  feel, 
No  grating  on  his  vessel's  keel; 
A  strip  of  silver  sand 
Mingled  the  waters  with  the  land 
Where  he  was  seen  no  more : 
O  stern  word — Nevermore] 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  129 

Full  short  bis  journey  was:  no  dust 
Of  earth  unto  his  sandals  clave ; 
The  weary  weight  that  old  men  must, 
He  bore  not  to  the  grave. 
He  seemed  a  cherub  who  had  lost  his  way 
And  wandered  hither,  so  his  stay 
With  us  was  short,  and  't  was  most  meet 
That  he  should  be  no  delver  in  Earth's  clod, 
Nor  need  to  pause  and  cleanse  his  feet 
To  stand  before  his  God : 
O  blest  word — Evermore ! 


THE   SERENADE. 

Gentle,  Lady,  be  thy  sleeping, 
Peaceful  may  thy  dreamings  be, 
While  around  thy  soul  is  sweeping, 
Dreamy- winged,  our  melody ; 
Chant  we,  Brothers,  sad  and  slow 
Let  our  song  be  soft  and  low 
As  the  voice  of  other  years, 
Let  our  hearts  within  us  melt, 
To  gentleness,  as  if  we  felt 
The  dropping  of  our  mother's  tears. 

Lady !  now  our  song  is  bringing 
Back  again  thy  childhood's  hours — 
Hearest  thou  the  humbee  singing 
Drowsily  among  the  flowers? 
Sleepily,  sleepily 
In  the  noontide  swayeth  he, 
Half  rested  on  the  slender  stalks 
That  edge  those  well-known  garden  walks; 

9  Lowell 


130  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Hearest  thou  the  fitful  whirring 
Of  the  humbird's  viewless  wings — 
Feel'st  not  round  thy  heart  the  stirring 
Of  childhood's  half -forgotten  things? 

Seest  thou  the  dear  old  dwelling 
With  the  woodbine  round  the  door? 
Brothers,  soft !  her  breast  is  swelling 
With  the  busy  thoughts  of  yore; 
Lowly  sing  ye,  sing  ye  mildly, 
Rouse  her  spirit  not  so  wildly, 
Lest  she  sleep  not  any  more. 
'Tis  the  pleasant  summertide, 
Open  stands  the  window  wide — 
Whose  voices,  Lady,  art  thou  drinking? 
Who  sings  that  best  beloved  tune 
In  a  clear  note,  rising,  sinking, 
Like  a  thrush's  song  in  June? 
Whose  laugh  is  that  which  rings  so  clear 
And  joyous  in  thine  eager  ear? 

Lower,  Brothers,  yet  more  low 
Weave  the  song  in  mazy  twines ; 
She  heareth  now  the  west  wind  blow 
At  evening  through  the  clump  of  pines; 
O !  mournful  is  their  tone, 
As  of  a  crazed  thing 
Who,  to  herself  alone, 
Is  ever  murmuring, 

Through  the  night  and  through  the  day, 
For  something  that  hath  past  away. 
Often,  Lady,  hast  thou  listened, 
Often  have  thy  blue  eyes  glistened, 
When  the  summer  evening  breeze 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  131 

Moaned  sadly  through  those  lonely  trees, 

Or  with  the  fierce  wind  from  the  north 

Wrung  their  mournful  music  forth. 

Ever  the  river  floweth 

In  an  unbroken  stream, 

Ever  the  west  wind  bloweth, 

Murmuring  as  he  goeth, 

And  mingling  with  her  dream : 

Onward  still  the  river  sweepeth 

With  a  sound  of  long-agone ; 

Lowly,  Brothers,  lo!  she  weepeth, 

She  is  now  no  more  alone ; 

Long-loved  forms  and  long-loved  faces 

Round  about  her  pillow  throng, 

Through  her  memory's  desert  places 

Flow  the  waters  of  our  song. 

Lady!  if  thy  life  be  holy 

As  when  thou  wert  yet  a  child, 

Though  our  song  be  melancholy, 

It  will  stir  no  anguish  wild ; 

For  the  soul  that  hath  lived  well, 

For  the  soul  that  child-like  is, 

There  is  quiet  in  the  spell 

That  brings  back  early  memories. 


132  LOWELL'S  POEMS 


SONG. 


Lift  up  the  curtains  of  thine  eyes 
And  let  their  light  out-shine ! 

Let  me  adore  the  mysteries 
Of  those  mild  orbs  of  thine, 

Which  ever  queenly  calm  do  roll, 

Attuned  to  an  ordered  soul ! 

ii. 

Open  thy  lips  yet  once  again 
And,  while  my  soul  doth  hush 

With  awe,  pour  forth  that  holy  strain 
Which  seemeth  me  to  gush, 

A  fount  of  music,  running  o'er 

From  thy  deep  spirit's  inmost  core! 

in. 

The  melody  that  dwells  in  thee 

Begets  in  me  as  well 
A  spiritual  harmony, 

A  mild  and  blessed  spell ; 
Far,  far  above  earth's  atmosphere 
I  rise,  whene'er  thy  voice  I  hear. 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  133 


THE   DEPARTED. 

Not  they  alone  are  the  departed, 
Who  have  laid  them  down  to  sleep 
In  the  grave  narrow  and  lonely, 
Not  for  them  only  do  I  vigils  keep, 
Not  for  them  only  am  I  heavy-hearted, 
Not  for  them  only ! 

Many,  many,  there  are  many 
Who  no  more  are  with  me  here, 
As  cherished,  as  beloved  as  any 
Whom  I  have  seen  upon  the  bier. 
I  weep  to  think  of  those  old  faces, 
To  see  them  in  their  grief  of  mirth ; 
I  weep — for  there  are  empty  places 
Around  my  heart's  once  crowded  hearth; 
The  cold  ground  doth  not  cover  them, 
The  grass  hath  not  grown  over  them, 
Yet  are  they  gone  from  me  on  earth ; — 
O !  how  more  bitter  is  this  weeping, 
Than  for  those  lost  ones  who  are  sleeping 
Where  sun  will  shine  and  flowers  blow, 
Where  gentle  winds  will  whisper  low, 
And  the  stars  have  them  in  their  keeping! 
Wherefore  from  me  who  loved  you  so, 
O!  wherefore  did  ye  go? 
I  have  shed  full  many  a  tear, 
I  have  wrestled  oft  in  prayer — 


134  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

But  ye  do  not  come  again ; 
How  could  anything  so  dear, 
How  could  anything  so  fair, 
Vanish  like  the  summer  rain? 
No,  no,  it  cannot  be, 
But  ye  are  still  with  me ! 

And  yet,  O !  where  art  thou, 
Childhood,  with  sunny  brow 
And  floating  hair? 
Where  art  thou  hiding  now? 
I  have  sought  thee  everywhere, 
All  among  the  shrubs  and  flowers 
Of  those  garden- walks  of  ours — 
Thou  art  not  there ! 
When  the  shadow  of  Night's  wings 
Hath  darkened  all  the  Earth, 
I  listen  for  thy  gambolings 
Beside  the  cheerful  hearth — 
Thou  art  not  there ! 
I  listen  to  the  far-off  bell, 
I  murmur  o'er  the  little  songs 
Which  thou  didst  love  so  well, 
Pleasant  memories  come  in  throngs 
And  mine  eyes  are  blurred  with  tears, 
But  no  glimpse  of  thee  appears : 
Lonely  am  I  in  the  Winter,  lonely  in  the  Spring, 
Summer  and  Harvest  bring  no  trace  of  thee — 
Oh !  whither,  whither  art  thou  wandering, 
Thou  who  didst  once  so  cleave  to  me? 

And  Love  is  gone, — 
I  have  seen  him  come, 
I  have  seen  him,  too,  depart, 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  135 

Leaving  desolate  his  home, 

His  bright  home  in  my  heart. 

I  am  alone ! 

Cold,  cold  is  his  hearth-stone, 

Wide  open  stands  the  door ; 

The  frolic  and  the  gentle  one 

Shall  I  see  no  more,  no  more? 

At  the  fount  the  bowl  is  broken, 

I  shall  drink  it  not  again, 

All  my  longing  prayers  are  spoken, 

And  felt,  ah,  woe  is  me,  in  vain ! 

Oh,  childish  hopes  and  childish  fancies, 

Whither  have  ye  fled  away? 

I  long  for  you  in  mournful  trances, 

I  long  for  you  by  night  and  day ; 

Beautiful  thoughts  that  once  were  mine, 

Might  I  but  win  you  back  once  more, 

Might  ye  about  my  being  twine 

And  cluster  as  ye  did  of  yore ! 

O !  do  not  let  me  pray  in  vain — 

How  good  and  happy  I  should  be, 

How  free  from  every  shade  of  pain, 

If  ye  would  come  again  to  me ! 

O,  come  again !  come,  come  again ! 

Hath  the  sun  forgot  its  brightness, 

Have  the  stars  forgot  to  shine, 

That  they  bring  not  their  wonted  lightness 

To  this  weary  heart  of  mine? 

'Tis  not  the  sun  that  shone  on  thee, 

Happy  childhood,  long  ago — 

Not  the  same  stars  silently 

Looking  on  the  same  bright  snow — 

Not  the  same  that  Love  and  I 


136  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

N 

Together  watched  in  days  gone  by ! 
No,  not  the  same,  alas  for  me! 

Would  God  that  those  who  early  went 
To  the  house  dark  and  low, 
For  whom  our  mourning  heads  were  bent, 
For  whom  our  steps  were  slow ; 
O,  would  that  these  alone  had  left  us, 
That  Fate  of  these  alone  had  reft  us, 
Would  God  indeed  that  it  were  so ! 
Many  loaves  too  soon  must  wither, 
Many  flowers  too  soon  must  die, 
Many  bright  ones  wandering  hither, 
We  know  not  whence,  we  know  not  why, 
Like  the  leaves  and  like  the  flowers, 
Vanish,  ere  the  summer  hours, 
That  brought  them  to  us,  have  gone  by. 

O  for  the  hopes  and  for  the  feelings, 
Childhood,  that  I  stared  with  thee— 
The  high  resolves,  the  bright  revealings 
Of  the  soul's  might,  which  thou  gav'st  me, 
Gentle  love,  woe  worth  the  day, 
Woe  worth  the  hour  when  thou  wert  born, 
Woe  worth  the  day  thou  fled'st  away — 
A  shade  across  the  wind-waved  corn — 
A  dewdrop  falling  from  the  leaves 
Chance- shaken  in  a  summer's  morn! 
Woe,  woe  is  me !  my  sick  heart  grieves, 
Companionless  and  anguish-worn! 
I  know  it  well,  our  manly  years 
Must  be  baptized  in  bitter  tears ; 
Full  many  fountains  must  run  dry 
That  youth  has  dreamed  for  long  hours  by, 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  137 


Choked  by  convention's  siroc  blast 
Or  drifting  sands  of  many  cares; 
Slowly  they  leave  us  all  at  last, 
And  cease  their  flowing  unawares. 


THE  BOBOLINK. 

Anacreon  of  the  meadow, 
Drunk  with  the  joy  of  spring! 
Beneath  the  tall  pine's  voiceful  shadow 
I  lie  and  drink  thy  jargoning; 
My  soul  is  full  with  melodies, 
One  drop  would  overflow  it, 
And  send  the  tears  into  mine  eyes — 
But  what  car'st  thou  to  know  it? 
Thy  heart  is  free  as  mountain  air, 
And  of  thy  lays  thou  hast  no  care, 
Scattering  them  gaily  everywhere, 
Happy,  unconscious  poet! 

Upon  a  tuft  of  meadow  grass, 
While  thy  loved-one  tends  the  nest, 
Thou  swayest  as  the  breezes  pass, 
Unburthening  thine  o'erfull  breast 
Of  the  crowded  songs  that  fill  it, 
Just  as  joy  may  choose  to  will  it. 
Lord  of  thy  love  and  liberty, 
The  blithest  bird  of  merry  May, 
Thou  turnest  thy  bright  eyes  on  me, 
That  say  as  plain  as  eye  can  say — 
"Here  sit  we,  here  in  the  summer  weather, 
I  and  my  modest  mate  together; 
Whatever  your  wise  thoughts  may  be, 


138  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Under  that  gloomy  old  pine  tree, 
We  do  not  value  them  a  feather  ' ' 

Now,  leaving  earth  and  me  behind, 

Thou  beatest  up  against  the  wind, 

Or,  floating  slowly  down  before  it, 

Above  thy  grass-hid  nest  thou  flutterest 

And  thy  bridal  love-song  utterest, 

Raining  showers  of  music  o'er  it, 

Weary  never,  still  thou  trillest, 

Spring-gladsome  lays, 

As  of  moss-rimmed  water-brooks 

Murmuring  through  pebbly  nooks 

In  quiet  summer  days. 

My  heart  with  happiness  thou  fillest, 

I  seem  again  to  be  a  boy 

Watching  thee,  gay,  blithsome  lover, 

O'er  the  bending  grass- tops  hover, 

Quivering  thy  wings  for  joy. 

There's  something  in  the  apple  blossom, 

The  greening  grass  and  bobolink's  song, 

That  wakes  again  within  my  bosom 

Feelings  which  have  slumbered  long. 

As  long,  long  years  ago  I  wandered, 

I  seem  to  wander  even  yet, 

The  hours  the  idle  school-boy  squandered, 

The  man  would  die  ere  he'd  forget. 

0  hours  that  frosty  eld  deemed  wasted, 
Nodding  his  gray  head  toward  my  books, 

1  dearer  prize  the  lore  I  tasted 

With  you,  among  the  trees  and  brooks, 
Than  all  that  I  have  gained  since  then 
From  learned  books  or  study-withered  men ! 
Nature,  thy  soul  was  one  with  mine, 


LOWELL'S   POEMS.  139 

And,  as  a  sister  by  a  younger  brother 

Is  loved,  each  flowing  to  the  other, 

Such  love  from  me  was  thine. 

Or  wert  thou  not  more  like  a  loving  mother 

With  sympathy  and  loving  power  to  heal, 

Against  whose  heart  my  throbbing  heart  I'd 

lay 

And  moan  my  childish  sorrows  all  away, 
Till  calm  and  holiness  would  o'er  me  steal? 
Was  not  the  golden  sunset  a  dear  friend? 
Found  I  no  kindness  in  the  silent  moon, 
And  the  green  trees,  whose  tops  did  sway 

and  bend, 

Low  singing  evermore  their  pleasant  tune? 
Felt  I  no  heart  in  dim  and  solemn  woods — 
No  loved-one's  voice  in  lonely  solitudes? 
Yes,   yes!    unhood winked  then  my  spirit's 

eyes, 
Blind  leaders  had  not  taught  me  to  be  wise. 

Dear  hours !  which  now  again  I  over-live, 
Hearing  and  seeing  with  ears  and  eyes 
Of  childhood,  ye  were  bees,  that  to  the  hive 
Of  my  young  heart  came  laden  with  rich 

prize, 
Gathered  in  fields  and   woods    and   sunny 

dells,  to  be 

My  spirit's  food  in  days  more  wintery. 
Yea,  yet  again  ye  come !  ye  come ! 
And,  like  a  child  once  more  at  home 
After  long  sojourning  in  alien  climes, 
I  lie  upon  my  mother's  breast, 
Feeling  the  blessedness  of  rest, 
And  dwelling  in  the  light  of  other  times. 


140  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

O  ye  whose  living  is  not  Life, 

Whose  dying  is  but  death, 

Song,  empty  toil  and  petty  strife, 

Rounded  with  loss  of  breath ! 

Go,  look  on  Nature's  countenance, 

Drink  in  the  blessing  of  her  glance ; 

Look  on  the  sunset,  hear  the  wind, 

The  cataract,  the  awful  thunder ; 

Go,  worship  by  the  sea ; 

Then,  and  then  only,  shall  ye  find, 

With  ever-growing  wonder, 

Man  is  not  all  in  all  to  ye ; 

Go  with  a  meek  and  humble  soul, 

Then  shall  the  scales  of  self  unroll 

From  off  your  eyes — the  weary  packs 

Drop  from  your  heavy-laden  backs ; 

And  ye  shall  see, 

With  reverent  and  hopeful  eyes, 

Glowing  with  new-born  energies, 

How  great  a  thing  it  is  to  be ! 


FORGETFULNESS. 

There's  a  haven  of  sure  rest 

From  the  loud  world's  bewildering  stress: 
As  a  bird  dreaming  on  her  nest, 
As  dew  hid  in  a  rose's  breast, 
As  Hesper  in  the  glowing  West ; 
So  the  heart  sleeps 
In  thy  calm  deeps, 
Serene  Forgetf ulness ! 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  141 

No  sorrow  in  that  place  may  be, 

The  noise  of  life  grows  less  and  less: 
As  moss  far  down  within  the  sea, 
As,  in  white  lily  caves,  a  bee, 
As  life  in  a  hazy  reverie ; 
So  the  heart's  wave 
In  thy  dim  cave, 
Hushes,  Forgetfulness! 

Duty  and  care  fade  far  away, 

What  toil  may  be  we  cannot  guess ; 
As  a  ship  anchored  in  the  bay, 
As  a  cloud  at  summer-noon  astray 
As  water-blooms  in  a  breezeless  day, 
So,  'neath  thine  eyes, 
The  full  heart  lies, 
And  dreams,  Forgetfulness! 


SONG. 


What  reck  I  of  the  stars,  when  I 

May  gaze  into  thine  eyes, 
O'er  which  the  brown  hair  flowingly 

Is  parted  maidenwise 
From  thy  pale  forehead,  calm  and  bright, 
Over  thy  cheek  so  rosy  white? 

n. 

What  care  I  for  the  red  moon-rise? 

Far  liefer  would  I  sit 
And  watch  the  joy  within  thine  eyes 


142  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Gush  up  at  sight  of  it ; 
Thyself  my  queenly  moon  shall  be, 
Ruling  my  heart's  deep  tides  for  me! 

in. 

What  heed  I  if  the  sky  be  blue? 

So  are  thy  holy  eyes, 
And  bright  with  shadows  ever  new 

Of  changeful  sympathies, 
Which  in  thy  soul's  unruffled  deep 
Rest  evermore,  but  never  sleep. 


THE  POET. 

He  who  hath  felt  Life's  mystery 

Press  on  him  like  thick  night, 
Whose  soul  hath  known  no  history 

But  struggling  after  light ; — 
He  who  hath  seen  dim  shapes  arise 

In  the  soundless  depths  of  soul, 
Which  gaze  on  him  with  meaning  eyes 

Full  of  the  mighty  whole, 
Yet  will  no  word  of  healing  speak, 

Although  he  pray  night-long, 
"O,  help  me,  save  me!  I  am  weak, 

And  ye  are  wondrous  strong!" — 
Who,  in  the  midnight  dark  and  deep, 

Hath  felt  a  voice  of  might 
Come  echoing  through  the  halls  of  sleep 

From  the  lone  heart  of  Night, 
And,  starting  from  his  restless  bed, 

Hath  watched  and  wept  to  know 
What  meant  that  oracle  of  dread 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  143 

That  stirred  his  being  so ; 
He  who  hath  felt  how  strong  and  great 

This  Godlike  soul  of  man, 
And  looked  full  in  the  eyes  of  Fate, 

Since  Life  and  Thought  began ; 
The  armor  of  whose  moveless  trust 

Knoweth  no  spot  of  weakness, 
Who  hath  trod  fear  into  the  dust 

Beneath  the  feet  of  meekness; — 
He  who  hath  calmly  borne  his  cross, 

Knowing  himself  the  king 
Of  time,  nor  counted  it  a  loss 

To  learn  by  suffering ; — 
And  who  hath  worshiped  woman  still 

With  a  pure  soul  and  lowly, 
Nor  ever  hath  in  deed  or  will 

Profaned  her  temple  holy — 
He  is  the  Poet,  him  unto 

The  gift  of  song  is  given, 
Whose  life  is  lofty,  strong,  and  true, 

Who  never  fell  from  Heaven; 
He  is  the  Poet,  from  his  lips 

To  live  forevermore, 
Majestical  as  full-sailed  ships, 

The  words  of  Wisdom  pour. 


FLOWERS. 

'Hail  be  thou,  holie  hearbe, 
Growing  on  the  ground, 

All  in  the  mount  Calvary 
First  wert  thou  found ; 


144  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Thou  art  good  for  manie  a  sore, 
Thou  healest  manie  a  wound, 
In  the  name  of  sweete  Jesus 
I  take  thee  from  the  ground." 

— Ancient  Charm-verse. 


When,  from  a  pleasant  ramble,  home 

Fresh-stored  with  quiet  thoughts,  I  come, 

I  pluck  some  wayside  flower 

And  press  it  in  the  choicest  nook 

Of  a  much-loved  and  oft-read  book ; 

And,  when  upon  its  leaves  I  look 

In  a  less  happy  hour, 

Dear  memory  bears  me  far  away 

Unto  her  fairy  bower, 

And  on  her  breast  my  head  I  lay, 

While,  in  a  motherly,  sweet  strain, 

She  sings  me  gently  back  again 

To  by-gone  feelings,  until  they 

Seem  children  born  of  yesterday. 

ii. 

Yes,  many  story  of  past  hours 

I  read  in  these  dear  withered  flowers, 

And  once  again  I  seem  to  be 

Lying  beneath  the  old  oak  tree, 

And  looking  up  into  the  sky, 

Through  thick  leaves  rifted  fitfully, 

Lulled  by  the  rustling  of  the  vine, 

Or  the  faint  low  of  far-off  kine ; 

And  once  again  I  seem 

To  watch  the  whirling  bubbles  flee, 

Through  shade  and  gleam  alternately, 


LOWELL'S   POEMS.  145 

Down  the  vine-bowered  stream ; 
Or  'neath  the  odorous  linden  trees, 
When  summer  twilight  lingers  long, 
To  hear  the  flowing  of  the  breeze 
And  unseen  insects'  slumberous  song, 
That  mingle  into  one  and  seem 
Like  dim  murmurs  of  a  dream ; 
Fair  faces,  too,  I  seem  to  see, 
Smiling,  from  pleasant  eyes  at  me, 
And  voices  sweet  I  hear, 
That,  like  remembered  melody, 
Flow  through  my  spirit's  ear. 

in. 

A  poem  every  flower  is, 
And  every  leaf  a  line, 
And  with  delicious  memories 
They  fill  this  heart  of  mine : 
No  living  blossoms  are  so  clear. 
As  these  dead  relics  treasured  here ; 
One  tells  of  love,  of  friendship  one, 
Love's  quiet  after-sunset  time, 
When  the  all-dazzling  light  is  gone, 
And,  with  the  soul's  low  vesper-chime, 
O'er  half  its  heaven  doth  out-flow 
A  holy  calm  and  steady  glow. 
Some  are  gay  feast- song,  some  are  dirges, 
In  some  a  joy  with  sorrow  merges;  . 
One  sings  the  shadowed  woods,  and  one  the 

roar 

Of  ocean's  everlasting  surges, 
Tumbling  upon  the  beach's  hard-beat  floor, 
Or  sliding  backward  from  the  shore 

10  Lowell 


146  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

To  meet  the  landward  waves  and  slowly  plunge 

once  more. 

O  flowers  of  grace,  I  bless  ye  all 
By  the  dear  faces  ye  recall ! 

IV. 

Upon  the  banks  of  Life's  deep  streams 

Full  many  a  flower  groweth, 

Which  with  a  wondrous  fragrance  teems, 

And  in  the  silent  water  gleams, 

And  trembles  as  the  water  floweth, 

Many  a  one  the  wave  upteareth, 

Washing  ever  the  roots  away, 

And  far  upon  its  bosom  beareth,  , 

To  bloom  no  more  in  Youth's  glad  May; 

As  farther  on  the  river  runs, 

Flowing  more  deep  and  strong, 

Only  a  few  pale,  scattered  ones 

Are  seen  the  dreary  banks  along ; 

And  where  those  flowers  do  not  grow, 

The  river  floweth  dark  and  chill, 

Its  voice  is  sad,  and  with  its  flow 

Mingles  ever  a  sense  of  ill ; 

Then,  Poet,  thou  who  gather  dost 

Of  Life's  best  flowers  the  brightest, 

O,  take  good  heed  they  be  not  lost 

While  with  the  angry  flood  thou  fightest ! 

v. 

In  the  cool  grottoes  of  the  soul, 

Whence  flows  thought's  crystal  river, 

Whence  songs  of  joy  forever  roll 

To  Him  who  is  the  Giver — 

There  store  thou  them,  where  fresh  and  green 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  147 

Their  leaves  and  blossoms  may  be  seen, 

A  spring  of  joy  that  f aileth  never ; 

There  store  thou  them,  and  they  shall  be 

A  blessing  and  a  peace  to  thee, 

And  in  their  youth  and  purity 

Thou  shalt  be  young  forever ! 

Then,  with  their  fragrance  rich  and  rare, 

Thy  living  shall  be  rife, 

Strength  shall  be  thine  thy  cross  to  bear, 

And  they  shall  be  a  chaplet  fair, 

Breathing  a  pure  and  holy  air, 

To  crown  thy  holy  life. 

VI. 

O  Poet !  above  all  men  blest, 

Take  heed  that  thus  thou  store  them ; 

Love,  Hope  and  Faith  shall  ever  rest, 

Sweet  birds  (upon  how  sweet  a  nest!) 

Watchfully  brooding  o'er  them. 

And  from  those  flowers  of  Paradise 

Scatter  thou  many  a  blessed  seed, 

Wherefrom  an  offspring  may  arise 

To  cheer  the  hearts  and  light  the  eyes 

Of  after- voyagers  in  their  need. 

They  shall  not  fall  on  stony  ground, 

But,  yielding  all  their  hundred-fold, 

Shall  shed  a  peacefulness  around, 

Whose  strengthening  joy  may  not  be  told. 

So  shall  thy  name  be  blest  of  all, 

And  thy  remembrance  never  die ; 

For  of  that  seed  shall  surely  fall 

In  the  fair  garden  of  Eternity. 

Exult  then  in  the  nobleness 

Of  this  thy  work  so  holy, 


148  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Yet  be  not  thou  one  jot  the  less 

Humble  and  meek  and  lowly, 

But  let  thine  exultation  be 

The  reverence  of  a  bended  knee ; 

And  by  thy  life  a  poem  write, 

Built  strongly  day  by  day — 

And  on  the  rock  of  Truth  and  Right 

Its  deep  foundations  lay. 

VII. 

It  is  thy  duty !  Guard  it  well ! 

For  unto  thee  hath  much  been  given, 

And  thou  canst  make  this  life  a  Hell, 

Or  Jacob 's-ladder  up  to  Heaven. 

Let  not  thy  baptism  in  Life's  wave 

Make  thee  like  him    whom    Homer    sings — 

A  sleeper  in  a  living  grave, 

Callous  and  hard  to  outward  things ; 

But  open  all  thy  soul  and  sense 

To  every  blessed  influence 

That  from  the  heart  of  Nature  springs: 

Then  shall  thy  Life-flowers  be  to  thee, 

When  thy  best  years  are  told, 

As  much  as  these  have  been  to  me — 

Yea,  more,  a  thousand-fold! 


THE    LOVER, 
i. 

Go  roam  the  world  from  East  to  West, 
Search  every  land  beneath  the  sky, 
You  cannot  find  a  man  so  blest, 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  149 

A  king  so  powerful  as  I, 

Though  you  should  seek  eternally. 


ii. 


For  I  a  gentle  lover  be, 
Sitting  at  my  loved-one's  side; 
She  giveth  her  whole  soul  to  me 
Without  a  wish  or  thought  of  pride, 
And  she  shall  be  my  cherished  bride. 


in. 


No  show  of  gaudiness  hath  she, 
She  doth  not  flash  with  jewels  rare ; 
In  beautiful  simplicity 
She  weareth  leafy  garlands  fair, 
Or  modest  flowers  in  her  hair. 

IV. 

Sometimes  she  dons  a  robe  of  green, 
Sometimes  a  robe  of  snowy  white, 
But,  in  whatever  garb  she's  seen, 
It  seems  most  beautiful  and  right, 
And  is  the  loveliest  to  my  sight. 

v. 

Not  I  her  lover  am  alone. 
Yet  unto  all  she  doth  suffice, 
None  jealous  is,  and  every  one 
Reads  love  and  truth  within  her  eyes, 
And  deemeth  her  his  own  dear  prize. 

VI. 

And  so  thou  art,  Eternal  Nature ! 
Yes,  bride  of  Heaven,  so  thou  art; 


150  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Thou  wholly  lovest  every  creature, 
Giving  to  each  no  stinted  part, 
But  filling  every  peaceful  heart. 


TO   E.    W.    G. 

"Dear  Child!  dear  happy  Girl!  if  thou  appear 
Heedless  —  untouched    with    awe    or    serious 

thought, 

Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine : 
Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year; 
And  worship'st  at  the  Temple's  inner  shrine, 
God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. ' ' 

— Wordsworth. 

As  through  a  strip  of  sunny  light 

A  white  dove  flashes  swiftly  on, 

So  suddenly  before  my  sight 

Thou  gleamed'st  a  moment  and  wert  gone ; 

And  yet  I  long  shall  bear  in  mind 

The  pleasant  thoughts  thou  left'st  behind. 

Thou  mad'st  me  happy  with  thine  eyes, 
And  happy  with  thine  open  smile, 
And,  as  I  write,  sweet  memories 
Come  thronging  round  me  all  the  while ; 
Thou  mad'st  me  happy  with  thine  eyes — 
And  gentle  feelings  long  forgot 
Looked  up  and  oped  their  eyes, 
Like  violets  when  they  see  a  spot 
Of  summer  in  the  skies, 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  151 

Around  thy  playful  lips  did  glitter 
Heat-lightnings  of  a  girlish  scorn ; 
Harmless  they  were,  for  nothing  bitter 
In  thy  dear  heart  was  ever  born — 
That  merry  heart  that  could  not  lie 
Within  its  warm  nest  quietly, 
But  ever  from  its  each  full,  dark  eye 
Was  looking  kindly  night  and  morn. 

There  was  an  archness  in  thine  eyes, 
Born  of  the  gentlest  mockeries, 
And  thy  light  laughter  rang  as  clear 
As  water-drops  I  loved  to  hear 
In  days  of  boyhood,  as  they  fell 
Tinkling  far  down  the  dim,  still  well ; 
And  with  its  sound  come  back  once  more 
The  feelings  of  my  early  years, 
And  half  aloud  I  murmured  o'er — 
"Sure  I  have  heard  that  sound  before, 
It  is  so  pleasant  in  mine  ears." 

Whenever  thou  didst  look  on  me 
I  thought  of  merry  birds, 
And  something  of  spring's  melody 
Came  to  me  in  thy  words ; 
Thy  thoughts  did  dance  and  bound  along 
Like  happy  children  in  their  play, 
Whose  hearts  run  over  into  song 
For  gladness  of  the  summer's  day; 
And  mine  grew  dizzy  with  the  sight, 
Still  feeling  lighter  and  more  light, 
Till,  joining  hands,  they  whirled  away, 
As  blithe  and  merrily  as  they. 


152  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

I  bound  a  larch-twig  round  with  flowers, 
Which  thou  didst  twine  among  thy  hair, 
And  gladsome  were  the  few,  short  hours 
When  I  was  with  thee  there ; 
So  now  that  thou  art  far  away, 
Safe-nested  in  thy  warmer  clime, 
In  memory  of  a  happier  day 
I  twine  this  simple  wreath  of  rhyme. 

Dost  mind  T:ow  she,  whom  thou  dost  love 
More  than  in  light  words  may  be  said, 
A  coronal  of  amaranth  wove 
About  thy  duly-sobered  head, 
Which  kept  itself  a  moment  still 
That  she  might  have  her  gentle  will 
Thy  childlike  grace  and  purity 
O  keep  forevermore, 
And  as  thou  art,  still  strive  to  be, 
That  on  the  farther  shore 
Of  Time's  dark  waters  ye  may  meet, 
And  she  may  twine  around  thy  brow 
A  wreath  of  those  bright  flowers  that  grow 
Where  blessed  angels  set  their  feet ! 

ISABEL. 

As  the  leaf  upon  the  tree, 

Fluttering,  gleaming  constantly, 

Such  a  lightsome  thing  was  she, 

My  gay  and  gentle  Isabel ! 

Her  heart  was  fed  with  love-springs  sweet, 

And  in  her  face  you'd  see  it  beat 

To  hear  the  sound  of  welcome  feet — 

And  were  not  mine  so,  Isabel? 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  .  153 

She  knew  it  not,  but  she  was  fair, 
And  like  a  moonbeam  was  her  hair, 
That  falls  where  flowing  ripples  are 
In  summer  evenings,  Isabel ! 
Her  heart  and  tongue  were  scarce  apart, 
Unwittingly  her  lips  would  part, 
And  love  came  gushing  from  her  heart, 
The  woman's  heart  of  Isabel. 

So  pure  her  flesh-garb,  and  like  dew, 
That  in  her  features  glimmered  through 
Each  working  of  her  spirit  true, 
In  wondrous  beauty,  Isabel! 
A  sunbeam  struggling  through  thick  leaves, 
A  reaper's  song  'mid  yellow  sheaves, 
Less  gladsome  were ; — my  spirit  grieves 
To  think  of  thee,  mild  Isabel ! 

I  know  not  when  I  loved  thee  first; 
Not  loving,  I  had  been  accurst, 
Yet,  having  loved,  my  heart  will  burst, 
Longing  for  thee,  dear  Isabel! 
With  silent  tears  my  cheeks  are  wet, 
I  would  be  calm,  I  would  forget, 
But  thy  blue  eyes  gaze  on  me  yet, 
When  stars  have  risen,  Isabel. 

The  winds  mourn  for  thee,  Isabel, 
The  flowers  expect  thee  in  the  dell, 
Thy  gentle  spirit  loved  them  well, 
And  I  for  thy  sake,  Isabel! 
The  sunsets  seem  less  lovely  now 
Than  when,  leaf  checkered,  on  thy  brow 
They  fell  as  lovingly  as  thou 
Lingered'st  till  moon-rise,  Isabel! 


154  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

At  dead  of  night  I  seem  to  see 
Thy  fair,  pale  features  constantly 
Upturned  in  silent  prayer  for  me, 
O'er  moveless  clasped  hands,  Isabel! 
I  call  thee,  thou  dost  not  reply ; 
The  stars  gleam  coldly  on  thine  eye, 
As  like  a  dream  thou  flittest  by, 
And  leav'st  me  weeping,  Isabel! 


MUSIC. 


I  seem  to  lie  with  drooping  eyes, 

Dreaming  sweet  dreams, 
Half  longings  and  half  memories, 

In  woods  where  streams 
With  trembling  shades  and  whirling  gleams, 

Many  and  bright, 

In  song  and  light, 

Are  ever,  ever  flowing ; 

While  the  wind,  if  we  list  to  the  rustling  grass 
Which  numbers  his  footsteps  as  they  pass, 

Seems  scarcely  to  be  blowing ; 
And  the  far-heard  voice  of  Spring, 
From  sunny  slopes  comes  wandering, 
Calling  the  violets  from  the  sleep, 
That  bound  them  under  the  snow-drifts  deep, 
To  open  their  childlike,  asking  eyes 
On  the  new  summer's  paradise, 
And  mingled  with  the  gurgling  waters — 

As  the  dreamy  witchery 
Of  Achelous'  silver-voiced  daughters 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  155 

Rose  and  fell  with  the  heaving  sea, 
Whose  great  heart  swelled  with  ecstasy — 
The  song  of  many  a  floating  bird, 

Winding  through  the  rifted  trees, 
Is  dreamily  half-heard — 

A  sister  stream  of  melodies 
Rippled  by  the  flutterings 
Of  rapture- quivered  wings. 

ii. 

And  now  beside  a  cataract 
I  lie,  and  through  my  soul, 
From  over  me  and  under, 
The  never-ceasing  thunder 
Arousingly  doth  roll ; 
Through  the  darkness  all  compact, 
Through  the  trackless  sea  of  gloom, 
Sad  and  deep  I  hear  it  boom ; 
At  intervals  the  cloud  is  cracked 
And  a  livid  flesh  doth  hiss 

Downward  from  its  floating  home, 
Lighting  up  the  precipice 

And  the  never-resting  foam 
With  a  dim  and  ghastly  glare, 
Which,  for  a  heart-beat,  in  the  air, 

Shows  the  sweeping  shrouds 

Of  the  midnight  clouds 
And  their  wildly-scattered  hair. 

in. 

Now  listening  to  a  woman's  tone, 
In  a  wood  I  sit  alone — 
Alone  because  our  souls  are  one  • — » 
All  around  my  heart  it  flows, 


156  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Lulling  me  in  deep  repose ; 

I  fear  to  speak,  I  fear  to  move, 

Lest  I  should  break  the  spell  I  love — 

Low  and  gentle,  calm  and  clear, 

Into  my  inmost  soul  it  goes, 

As  if  my  brother  dear, 

Who  is  no  longer  here, 

Had  bended  from  the  sky 

And  murmured  in  my  ear 

A  strain  of  that  high  harmony, 

Which  they  may  sing  alone 

Who  worship  round  the  throne. 

IV. 

Now  in  a  fairy  boat, 

On  the  bright  waves  of  song, 
Full  merrily  I  float, 

Merrily  float  along; 
My  helm  is  veered,  I  care  not  how, 

My  white  sail  bellies  o'er  me, 

And  bright  as  gold  the  ripples  be 
That  plash  beneath  the  bow ; 

Before,  behind, 

They  feel  the  wind, 

And  they  are  dancing  joyously — 
While,  faintly  heard,  along  the  far-off  shore 
The  surf  goes  plunging  with  a  lingering  roar : 

Or  anchored  in  a  shadowy  cove, 
Entranced  with  harmonies, 
Slowly  I  sink  and  rise 

As  the  slow  waves  of  music  move 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  157 

v. 

Now  softly  dashing, 
Bubbling,  plashing, 
Mazy,  dreamy, 
Faint  and  streamy, 


Ripples  into  ripples  melt, 

Not  so  strongly  heard  as  felt; 

Now  rapid  and  quick, 

While  the  heart  beats  thick, 

The  music's  silver  wavelets  crowd, 

Distinct  and  clear,  but  never  loud; 

And  now  all  solemnly  and  slow, 

In  mild,  deep  tones  they  warble  low, 

Like  the  glad  song  of  angels,  when 

They  sang  good  will  and  peace  to  men ; 

Now  faintly  heard  and  far, 

As  if  the  spirit's  ears 

Had  caught  the  anthem  of  a  star 

Chanting  with  his  brother- spheres 
In  the  midnight  dark  and  deep, 
When  the  body  is  asleep 
And  wondrous  shadows  pour  in  streams 
From  the  two-fold  gate  of  dreams ; 
Now  onward  roll  the  billows,  swelling 
With  a  tempest-sound  of  might, 
As  of  voices  doom  foretelling 

To  the  silent  ear  of  Night  • 
And  now  a  mingled  ecstasy 

Of  all  sweet  sounds  it  is ; — 
O !  who  may  tell  the  agony 
Of  rapture  such  as  this? 


158  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

VI. 

I  have  drunk  of  the  drink  of  immortals, 

I  have  drunk  of  the  life-giving  wine, 
And  now  I  may  pass  the  bright  portals 

That  open  into  a  realm  divine! 
I  have  drunk  it  through  mine  ears 

In  the  ecstasy  of  song, 
When  mine  eyes  would  fill  with  tears 

That  its  life  were  not  more  long; 
I  have  drunk  it  through  mine  eyes 

In  beauty's  every  shape, 
And  now  around  my  soul  it  lies, 

No  juice  of  earthly  grape ! 
Wings !  wings  are  given  to  me, 

I  can  flutter,  I  can  rise, 
Like  a  new  life  gushing  through  me 

Sweep  the  heavenly  harmonies! 


SONG. 

Oh!  I  must  look  on  that  sweet  face  once  more 

before  I  die; 
God  grant  that  it  may  lighten  up  with  joy  when 

I  draw  nigh ; 
God  grant  that  she  may  look  on  me  as  kindly 

as  she  seems 
In   the  long  night,  the  restless  night,   i'  the 

sunny  land  of  dreams ! 

I  hoped,  I  thought,  she  loved  me  once,  and  yet, 

I  know  not  why, 
There  is  coldness  in  her  speech,  and  a  coldness 

in  her  eye. 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  159 

Something  that  in  another's  look  would  not 

seem  cold  to  me, 
And  yet  like  ice  I  feel  it  chill  the  heart  of 

memory. 

She  does  not  come  to  greet  me  so  frankly  as 
she  did, 

And  in  her  utmost  openness  I  feel  there's  some 
thing  hid ; 

She  almost  seems  to  shun  me,  as  if  she  thought 
that  I 

Might  win  her  gentle  heart  again  to  feelings 
long  gone  by. 

I  sought  the  first  spring-buds  for  her,  the  fair 
est  and  the  best, 

And  she  wore  them  for  their  loveliness  upon 
her  spotless  breast, 

The  blood-root  and  the  violet,  the  frail  ane 
mone, 

She  wore  them,  and  alas !  I  deemed  it  was  for 
love  of  me ! 

As  flowers  in  a  darksome  place  stretch  forward 

to  the  light, 
So  to  the  memory  of  her  I  turn  by  day  and 

night; 
As  flowers  in  a  darksome  place  grow  thin  and 

pale  and  wan, 
So  is  it  with  my  darkened  heart,  now  that  her 

light  is  gone. 

The  thousand  little  things  that  love  doth  treas 
ure  up  for  aye, 


160  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

And  brood  upon  with  moistened  eyes  when  she 

that's  loved's  away; 
The  word,  the  look,  the  smile,  the  blush,  the 

ribbon  that  she  wore, 
Each  day  they  grow  more  dear  to  me,  and  pain 

me  more  and  more. 

My  face  I  cover  with  my  hands,  and  bitterly  I 

weep, 
That  the  quick-gathering  sands  of  life  should 

choke  a  love  so  deep, 
And  that  the  stream,  so  pure  and  bright,  must 

turn  it  from  its  track, 
Or  to  the  heart-springs,  whence  it  rose,  roll  its 

full  waters  back ! 

As  calm  as  doth  the  lily  float  close  by  the  lake 
let's  brim, 

So  calm  and  spotless,  down  time's  stream,  her 
peaceful  days  did  swim, 

And  I  had  longed,  and  dreamed,  and  prayed, 
that  closely  by  her  side, 

Down  to  a  haven  still  and  sure,  my  happy  life 
might  glide. 

But,  now,  alas !  those  golden  days  of  youth  and 
hope  are  o'er, 

And  I  must  dream  those  dreams  of  joy,  those 
guiltless  dreams  no  more ; 

Yet  there  is  something  in  my  heart  that  whis 
pers  ceaselessly, 

"Would  God  that  I  might  see  that  face  once 
more  before  I  die!" 


LOWELL'S   POEMS.  161 


IANTHE. 


There  is  a  light  within  her  eyes, 

Like  gleams  of  wandering  fire-flies; 

From  light  to  shade  it  leaps  and  moves 

Whenever  in  her  soul  arise 

The  holy  shapes  of  things  she  loves; 

Fitful  it  shines  and  changes  ever, 

Like  star-lit  ripples  on  a  river, 

Or  summer  sunshine  on  the  eaves 

Of  silver  trembling  poplar  eaves, 

Where  the  lingering  dewdrops  quiver. 

I  may  not  tell  the  blessedness 

Her  mild  eyes  send  to  mine, 

The  sunset-tinted  haziness 

Of  their  mysterious  shine, 

The  dim  and  holy  mournfulness 

Of  their  mellow  light  divine ; 

The  shadow  of  the  lashes  lie 

Over  them  so  lovingly, 

That  they  seem  to  melt  away 

In  a  doubtful  twilight-gray, 

While  I  watch  the  stars  arise 

In  the  evening  of  her  eyes. 

I  love  it,  yet  I  almost  dread 

To  think  what  it  foreshadoweth; 

And,  when  I  muse  how  I  have  read 

That  such  strange  light  betokened  death- 

11    Lowell 


162  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Instead  of  fire-fly  gleams,  I  see 

Wild  corpse-lights  gliding  waveringly. 

ii. 

With  wayward  thoughts  her  eyes  are  bright, 
Like  shiftings  of  the  northern-light, 
Hither,  thither,  swiftly  glance  they, 
In  a  mazy  twining  dance  they, 
Like  ripply  lights  the  sunshine  weaves, 
Thrown  backward  from  a  shaken  nook, 
,  Below  some  tumbling  water-brook, 
On  the  o'erarching  platan-leaves, 
All  through  her  glowing  face  they  flit, 
And  rest  in  their  deep  dwelling-place, 
Those  fathomless  blue  eyes  of  hers, 
Till,  from  her  burning  soul  re-lit, 
While  her  upheaving  bosom  stirs, 
They  stream  again  across  her  face 
And  with  such  hope  and  glory  fill  it, 
Death  could  not  have  the  heart  to  chill  it. 
Yet  when  their  wild  light  fades  again, 
I  feel  a  sudden  sense  of  pain, 
As  if,  while  yet  her  eyes  were  gleaming, 
And  like  a  shower  of  sun-lit  rain 
Bright  fancies  from  her  face  were  streaming, 
Her  trembling  soul  might  flit  away 
As  swift  and  suddenly  as  they. 

in. 

A  wild,  inspired  earnestness 

Her  inmost  being  fills, 
And  eager  self-forgetfulness, 

That  speaks  not  what  it  wills, 
But  what  unto  her  soul  is  given, 


-LOWELL'S  POEMS.  163 

A  living  oracle  from  Heaven, 
Which  scarcely  in  her  breast  is  born 
When  on  her  trembling  lips  it  thrills, 
And,  like  a  burst  of  golden  skies 
Through  storm-clouds  on  a  sudden  torn, 
Like  a  glory  of  the  morn, 
Beams  marvelously  from  her  eyes. 
And  then,  like  a  Spring-swollen  river, 

Roll    the     deep    waves    of    her    full-hearted 

thought 

Crested  with  sun-lit  spray, 
Her  wild  lips  curve  and  quiver, 

And  my  rapt   soul,  on   the   strong   tide  up- 
caught 

Unwittingly  is  borne  away, 
Lulled  by  a  dreamful  music  ever, 
Far — through  the  solemn  twilight-gray 

Of  hoary  woods — through  valleys  green 
Which  the  trailing  vine  embowers, 

And  where   the   purple-clustered   grapes   are 
seen 

Deep-glowing  through  rich  clumps  of  waving 

flowers — 

Now  over  foaming  rapids  swept 
And  with  maddening  rapture  shook — 

Now    gliding    where    the   water-plants    have 

slept 

For  ages  in  a  moss-rimmed  nook — 
Enwoven  by  a  wild-eyed  band 
Of  earth-forgetting  dreams, 
I  float  to  a  delicious  land 
By  a  sunset  heaven  spanned, 
And  musical  with  streams ; — 
Around,  the  calm,  majestic  forms 


164  LOWELL'S   POEMS. 

And  god-like  eyes  of  early  Greece  I  see, 
Or  listen,  till  my  spirit  warms, 
To  songs  of  courtly  chivalry, 
Or  weep,  unmindful  if  my  tears  be  seen, 
For  the  meek,  suffering  love  of  poor  Undine. 

IV. 

Her  thoughts  are  never  memories, 
But  ever  changeful,  ever  new, 
Fresh  and  beautiful  as  dew 
That  in  a  dell  a  t  noontide  lies, 
Or,  at  the  close  of  summer  day, 
The  pleasant  breath  of  new-mown  hay : 
Swiftly  they  come  and  pass 
As  golden  birds  across  the  sun, 
As  light- gleams  on  tall  meadow-grass 
Which  the  wind  just  breathes  upon. 
And  when  she  speaks,  her  eyes  I  see 

Down-gushing  through  their  silken  lattices, 
Like  stars  that  quiver  tremblingly 
Through  leafy  branches  of  the  trees, 
And  her  pale  cheeks  do  flush  and  glow 
With  speaking  flashes  bright  and  rare 

As  crimson  North-lights  on  new-fallen  snow, 
From  out  the  veiling  of  her  hair — 

Her  careless  hair  that  scatters  down 
On  either  side  her  eyes, 

A  waterfall  leaf-tinged  with  brown 
And  lit  with  the  sunrise. 

v. 

When  first  I  saw  her,  not  of  earth, 
But  heavenly  both  in  grief  and  mirti. 
I  thought  her ;  she  did  seem 


LOWELL'S  POEMS,  165 

As  fair  and  full  of  mystery, 

As  bodiless,  as  forms  we  see 

In  the  rememberings  of  a  dream ; 

A  moonlit  mist,  a  strange,  dim  light, 

Circled  her  spirit  from  my  sight , — 

Each  day  more  beautiful  she  grew, 

More  earthly,  every  day, 
Yet  that  mysterious,  moony  hue 

Faded  not  all  away ; 
She  has  a  sister's  sympathy 
With  all  the  wanderers  of  the  sky, 
But  most  I've  seen  her  bosom  stir 

When  moonlight  round  her  fell, 
For  the  mild  moon  it  loveth  her, 

She  loveth  it  as  well, 
And  of  their  love  perchance  this  grace 
Was  born  into  her  wondrous  face. 
I  cannot  tell  how  it  may  be, 
For  both,  methinks,  can  scarce  be  true, 
Still,  as  she  earthly  grew  to  me, 
She  grew  more  heavenly  too ; 

She  seems  one  born  in  Heaven 
With  earthly  feelings, 

For,  while  unto  her  soul  are  given 
More  pure  revealings 

Of  holiest  love  and  truth, 
Yet  is  the  mildness  of  her  eyes 
Made  up  of  quickest  sympathies, 

Of  kindliness  and  ruth ; 
So,  though  some  shade  of  awe  doth  stir 
Our  souls  for  one  so  far  above  us, 
We  feel  secure  that  she  will  love  us, 
And  cannot  keep  from  loving  her. 
She  is  a  poem,  which  to  me 


166  LOWELL  S  POEMS. 

In  speech  and  look  is  written  bright, 
And  to  her  life's  rich  harmony 
Doth  ever  sing  itself  aright ; 
Dear,  glorious  creature ! 
With  eyes  so  dewy  bright, 

And  tenderest  feeling 

Itself  revealing 
In  every  look  and  feature, 
Welcome  as  a  homestead  light 
To  one  long- wandering  in  a  clouded  night; 
O,  lovelier  for  her  woman's  weakness 

Which  yet  is  strongly  mailed 
In  armor  of  courageous  meekness 

And  faith  'that  never  failed ! 

VI. 

Early  and  late,  at  her  soul's  gate, 
Sits  Chastity  in  warderwise, 
No  thoughts  unchallenged,  small  or  great, 
Go  thence  into  her  eyes; 
Nor  may  a  low,  unworthy  thought 
Beyond  that  virgin  warder  win, 
Nor  one,  whose  password  is  not  "ought," 
May  go  without  or  enter  in. 
I  call  her,  seeing  those  pure  eyes, 
The  Eve  of  a  new  Paradise, 
Which  she  by  gentle  word  and  deed, 
And  look  no  less,  doth  still  create 
About  her,  for  her  great  thoughts  breed 
A  calm  that  lifts  us  from  our  fallen  state, 
And  makes  us  while  with  her  both  good  and 

great — 

Nor  is  their  memory  wanting  in  our  need  • 
With  stronger  loving,  every  hour, 


LOWELL'S   POEMS.  167 

Turneth  my  heart  to  this  frail  flower, 
Which,  thoughtless  of   the    world,    hath 

grown 

To  beauty  and  meek  gentleness, 
He.  e  in  a  fair  world  of  its  own 
By  woman's  instinct  trained  alone — 
A  lily  fair  which  God  did  bless, 
And  which  from  Nature's  heart  did  draw 
Love,   wisdom,   peace,   and  Heaven's  perfect 

law. 


LOVE'S  ALTAR. 


I  built  an  altar  in  my  soul, 

I  builded  it  to  one  alone ; 

And  ever  silently  I  stole, 

In  happy  days  of  long-agone, 

To  make  rich  offerings  to  that  one. 

ii. 

'Twas  garlanded  with  purest  thought, 
And  crowned  with  fancy's  flowers  bright, 
With  choicest  gems  'twas  all  inwrought 
Of  truth  and  feeling;  in  my  sight 
It  seemed  a  spot  of  cloudless  light. 

in. 

Yet  when  I  made  my  offering  there, 
Like  Cain's,  the  incense  would  not  rise; 
Back  on  my  heart  down-sank  the  prayer, 
And  altar-stone  and  sacrifice 
Grew  hateful  in  my  tear-dimmed  eyes. 


168  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

IV. 

O'er-grown  with  age's  mosses  green, 
The  little  altar  firmly  stands ; 
It  is  not,  as  it  once  hath  been, 
A  selfish  shrine; — these  time-taugLt  hands 
Bring  incense  now  from  many  lands. 

v. 

Knowledge  doth  only  widen  love ; 
The  stream,  that  lone  and  narrow  rose, 
Doth,  deepening  ever,  onward  move, 
And  with  an  even  current  flows 
Calmer  and  calmer  to  the  close. 

VI. 

The  love,  that  in  those  early  days 
Girt  round  my  spirit  like  a  wall, 
Hath  faded  like  a  morning  haze, 
And  flames,  unpent  by  self's  mean  thrall, 
Rise  clearly  to  the  perfect  all. 


MY   LOVE. 


Not  as  all  other  women  are 
Is  she  that  to  my  soul  is  dear; 
Her  glorious  fancies  come  from  far 
Beneath  the  silver  evening-star, 
And  yet  her  heart  is  ever  near. 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  169 

II. 

Great  feelings  hath  she  of  her  own 
Which  lesser  souls  may  never  know ; 
God  giveth  them  to  her  alone, 
And  sweet  they  are  as  any  tone 
Wherewith  the  wind  may  choose  to  blow. 

in. 

Yet  in  herself  she  dwelleth  not, 
Although  no  home  were  half  so  fair, 
No  simplest  duty  is  forgot, 
Life  hath  no  dim  and  lowly  spot 
That  doth  not  in  her  sunshine  share. 

IV. 

She  doeth  little  kindnesses, 
Which  most  leave  undone,  or  despise, 
For  naught  that  sets  one  heart  at  ease, 
And  giveth  happiness  or  peace, 
Is  low-esteemed  in  her  eyes. 

v. 

She  hath  no  scorn  of  common  things, 
And,  though  she  seem  of  other  birth, 
Round  us  her  heart  entwines  and  clings, 
And  patiently  she  folds  her  wings 
To  tread  the  humble  paths  of  earth. 

VI. 

Blessing  she  is :  God  made  her  so, 
And  deeds  of  week-day  holiness 
Fall  from  her  noiseless  as  the  snow, 
Nor  hath  she  ever  chanced  to  know 
That  aught  were  easier  than  to  bless. 


170  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

VII. 

She  is  most  fair,  and  thereunto 
Her  life  doth  rightly  harmonize; 
Feeling  or  thought  that  was  not  true 
Ne'er  made  less  beautiful  the  blue 
Unclouded  heaven  of  her  eyes. 

vm. 

On  Nature  she  doth  muse  and  brood 
With  such  a  still  and  love-clear  eye — 
She  is  so  gentle  and  so  good — 
The  very  flowers  in  the  wood 
Do  bless  her  with  their  sympathy. 

IX. 

She  is  a  woman :  one  in  whom 
The  spring-time  of  her  childish  years 
Hath  never  lost  its  fresh  perfume, 
Though  knowing  well  that  life  hath  room 
For  many  blights  and  many  tears. 

x. 

And  youth  in  her  a  home  will  find, 
Where  he  may  dwell  eternally ; 
Her  soul  is  not  of  that  weak  kind 
Which  better  love  the  life  behind 
Than  that  which  is,  or  is  to  be. 

XI. 

I  love  her  with  a  love  as  still 
As  a  broad  river's  peaceful  might, 
Which,  by  high  tower  and  lowly  mill, 
Goes  wandering  at  its  own  will, 
And  yet  doth  ever  flow  aright. 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  171 

XII. 

And,  on  its  full,  deep  breast  serene, 
Like  quiet  isles  my  duties  lie , 
It  flows  around  them  and  between, 
And  makes  them  fresh  and  fair  and  green, 
Sweet  homes  wherein  to  live  and  die. 


WITH   A   PRESSED   FLOWER. 

This  little  flower  from  afar 
Hath  come  from  other  lands  to  thine ; 
For,  once,  its  white  and  drooping  star 
Could  see  its  shadow  in  the  Rhine. 

Perchance  some  fair-haired  German  maid 
Hath  plucked  one  from  the  self-same  stalk, 
And  numbered  over,  half  afraid, 
Its  petals  in  her  evening  walk. 

"He loves  me,  loves  me  not,"  she  cries; 
"He  loves  me  more  than  earth  or  Heaven," 
And  then  glad  tears  have  filled  her  eyes 
To  find  the  number  was  uneven. 

So,  Love,  my  heart  doth  wander  forth 
To  farthest  lands  beyond  the  sea, 
And  search  the  fairest  spots  of  earth 
To  find  sweet  flowers  of  thought  for  thec. 

A  type  this  tiny  blossom  is 
Of  what  my  heart  doth  every  day, 
Seeking  for  pleasant  fantasies 
To  brood  upon  when  thou  'rt  away. 


172  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

And  them  must  count  its  petals  well. 
Because  it  is  a  gift  from  me ; 
And  the  last  one  of  all  shall  tell 
Something  I've  often  told  to  thee. 

But  here  at  home,  where  we  were  born, 
Thou  wilt  find  flowers  just  as  true, 
Down  bending  every  summer  morn, 
With  freshness  of  New  England  dew. 

For  Nature,  ever  right  in  love, 
Hath  given  them  the  same  sweet  tongue, 
Whether  with  German  skies  above, 
Or  here  our  granite  rocks  among. 


IMPARTIALITY. 


I  cannot  say  a  scene  is  fair 
Because  it  is  beloved  of  thee, 
But  I  shall  love  to  linger  there, 
For  sake  of  thy  dear  memory ; 
I  would  not  be  so  coldly  just 
As  to  love  only  what  I  must. 

n. 

I  cannot  say  a  thought  is  good, 
Because  thou  foundest  joy  in  it ; 
Each  soul  must  choose  its  proper  food 
Which  Nature  hath  decreed  most  fit ; 
But  I  shall  ever  deem  it  so 
Because  it  made  thy  heart  o'erflow. 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  173 

III. 

I  love  thee  for  that  thou  art  fair; 
And  that  thy  spirit  joys  in  aught 
Createth  a  new  beauty  there, 
With  thine  own  dearest  image  fraught ; 
And  love,  for  others'  sake  that  springs, 
Gives  half  their  charm  to  lovely  things. 


BELLEROPHON. 

DEDICATED  TO  MY  FRIEND,  JOHN  F.   HEATH. 

I  feel  the  bandages  unroll 

That  bound  my  inward  seeing; 
Freed  are  the  bright  wings  of  my  soul, 

Types  of  my  godlike  being: 
High  thoughts  are  swelling  in  my  heart 

And  rushing  through  my  brain ; 
May  I  never  more  lose  part 

In  my  soul's  realm  again ! 
All  things  fair,  where'er  they  be, 
In  earth  or  air,  in  sky  or  sea, 
I  have  loved  them  all,  and  taken 
All  within  my  throbbing  breast , 
No  more  my  spirit  can  be  shaken 
From  its  calm  and  kingly  rest !  , 
Love  hath  shed  its  light  around  me, 
Love  hath  pierced  the  shades  that  bound  me ; 
Mine  eyes  are  opened,  I  can  see 
The  universe's  mystery, 

The  mighty  heart  and  core 

Of  After  and  Before 
I  see,  and  I  am  weak  no  more. 


174  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

II. 

Upward !  upward  evermore, 
To  Heaven's  open  gate  I  soar! 
Little  thoughts  are  far  behind  me, 
Which,  when  custom  weaves  together, 
All  the  nobler  man  can  tether — 
Cobwebs  now  no  more  can  bind  me ! 
How  fold  thy  wings  a  little  while, 

My  tranced  soul,  and  lie 
At  rest  on  this  Calypso-isle 

That  floats  in  mellow  sky, 
A  thousand  isles  with  gentle  motion 
Rock  upon  the  sunset  ocean ; 
A  thousand  isles  of  thousand  hues, 
How  bright !  how  beautiful !  how  rare ! 
Into  my  spirit  they  infuse 
A  purer,  a  diviner  air; 
The  earth  is  growing  dimmer, 
And  now  the  last  faint  glimmer 

Hath  faded  from  the  hill; 
But  in  my  higher  atmosphere 
The  sunlight  streameth  red  and  clear, 

Fringing  the  islets  still ; — 
Love  lifts  us  to  the  sunlight, 
Though  the  whole  world  be  dark ; 
Love,  wide  Love,  is  the  one  light, 
All  else  is  but  a  fading  spark ; 
Love  is  the  nectar  which  doth  fill 
Our  soul's  cup  even  to  overflowing, 
And,  warming  heart,  and  thought,  and  will, 
Doth  lie  within  us  mildly  glowing, 
From  its  own  centre  raying  out 
Beauty  and  Truth  on  all  without. 


LOWELL'S   POEMS.  175 

III. 

Each  on  his  golden  throne, 

Full  royally,  alone, 

I  see  the  stars  above  me, 

With  scepter  and  with  diadem ; 

Mildly  they  look  down  and  love  me. 

For  I  have  ever  yet  loved  them, 

I  see  their  ever-sleepless  eyes 
Watching  the  growth  of  destinies ; 
Calm,  sedate, 
The  eyes  of  Fate, 
They  wink  not,  nor  do  roll, 
But  search  the  depths  of  soul — 
And  in  those  mighty  depths  they  see 
The  germs  of  all  Futurity, 
Waiting  but  the  fitting  time 
To  burst  and  ripen  into  prime, 
As  in  the  womb  of  mother  Earth 
The  seeds  of  plants  and  forests  lie 
Age  upon  age  and  never  die — 
So  in  the  souls  of  all  men  wait, 
Undyingly  the  seeds  of  Fate; 
Chance  breaks  the  clod  and  forth  they  spring, 
Filling  blind  men  with  wondering. 
Eternal  stars !  with  holy  awe, 
As  if  a  present  God  I  saw, 
I  look  into  those  mighty  eyes 
And  see  great  destinies  arise, 
As  in  those  of  mortal  men 
Feelings  glow  and  fade  again ! 
All  things  below,  all  things  above, 
Are  open  to  the  eyes  of  Love. 


176  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

IV. 

Of  Knowledge  Love  is  master-key, 
Knowledge  of  Beauty ;  passing  dear 
Is  each  to  each,  and  mutually 
Each  one  doth  make  the  other  clear ; 
Beauty  is  Love,  and  what  we  love 
Straightway  is  beautiful, 
So  is  the  circle  round  and  full, 
And  so  dear  Love  doth  live  and  move 

And  have  his  being, 
Finding  his  proper  food 

By  sure  inseeing, 
In  all  things  pure  and  good, 
Which  he  at  will  doth  cull, 
Like  a  joyous  butterfly 
Hiving  in  the  sunny  bowers 
Of  the  soul's  fairest  flowers, 
Or,  between  the  earth  and  sky, 
Wandering  at  liberty 
For  happy,  happy  hours. 


v. 

The  thoughts  of  Love  are  Poesy, 
As  this  fair  earth  and  all  we  see 
Are  the  thoughts  of  Deity — 
And  Love  is  ours  by  our  birthright ! 
He  hath  cleared  mine  inward  sight ; 
Glorious  shapes  with  glorious  eyes 
Round  about  my  spirit  glance, 
Shedding  a  mild  and  golden  light 
On  the  shadowy  face  of  Night ; 
To  unearthly  melodies, 


LOWELL'S   POEMS.  177 

Hand  in  hand,  they  weave  their  dance, 
While  a  deep,  ambrosial  lustre 

From  their  rounded  limbs  doth  shine, 
Through  many  a  rich  and  golden  cluster 

Of  streaming  hair  divine. 
In  our  gross  and  earthly  hours 
We  cannot  see  the  Love-given  powers 
Which  ever  round  the  soul  await 

To  do  its  sovereign  will, 
When,  in  its  moments  calm  and  still, 
It  re-assumes  its  royal  state, 
Nor  longer  sits  with  eyes  downcast, 
A  beggar,  dreaming  of  the  past, 
At  its  own  palace-gate. 

VI. 

I  too  am  a  Maker  and  a  Poet ; 
Through  my  whole  soul  I  feel  it  and  know  it; 
My  veins  are  fired  with  ecstasy! 

All-mother  Earth 

Did  ne'er  give  birth 
To  one  who  shall  be  matched  with  me; 
The  lustre  of  my  coronal 
Shall  cast  a  dimness  over  all. — 
Alas!  alas!  what  have  I  spoken? 
My  strong,  my  eagle  wings  are  broken, 
And  back  again  to  earth  I  fall ! 


12    Lowell 


178  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 


SOMETHING  NATURAL. 
i. 

When  first  I  saw  thy  soul-deep  eyes, 
My  heart  yearned  to  thee  instantly, 
Strange  longing  in  my  soul  did  rise ; 
I  cannot  tell  the  reason  why, 
But  I  must  love  thee  till  I  die. 

ii. 

The  sight  of  thee  hath  well-nigh  grown 
As  needful  to  me  as  the  light ; 
I  am  unrestful  when  alone, 
And  my  heart  doth  not  beat  aright 
Except  it  dwell  within  thy  sight. 

in. 

And  yet — and  yet — O  selfish  love! 
I  am  not  happy  even  with  thee; 
I  see  thee  in  thy  brightness  move, 
And  cannot  well  contented  be, 
Save  thou  should'st  shine  alone  for  me. 

IV. 

We  should  love  beauty  even  as  flowers — 
For  all,  'tis  said,  they  bud  and  blow, 
They  are  the  world's  as  well  as  ours — 
But  thou — alas !  God  made  thee  grow 
So  fair,  I  cannot  love  thee  so! 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  179 


THE  SYRENS. 

The  sea  is  lonely,  the  sea  is  dreary, 
The  sea  is  restless  and  uneasy; 
Thou  seekest  quiet,  thou  art  weary, 
Wandering-  thou  knowest  not  whither ; — 
Our  little  isle  is  green  and  breezy, 
Come  and  rest  thee !     O  come  hither, 
Come  to  this  peaceful  home  of  ours, 

Where  evermore 

The  low  west- wind  creeps  panting  up  the  shore 
To  be  at  rest  among  the  flowers ; 
Full  of  rest,  the  green  moss  lifts, 

As  the  dark  waves  of  the  sea 
Draw  in  and  out  of  rocky  rifts 

Calling  solemnly  to  thee, 
With  voices  deep  and  hollow — 
To 'the  shore 

Follow!    O  follow! 
To  be  at  rest  for  evermore ! 
For  evermore ! 

Look  how  the  gray  old  Ocean 
From  the  depths  of  his  heart  rejoices, 
Heaving  with  a  gentle  motion, 
When  he  hears  our  restful  voices : 
List  how  he  sings  in  an  undertone, 
Chiming  with  our  melody; 
And  all  sweet  sounds  of  earth  and  air 


180  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Melt  into  one  low  voice  alone, 
That  murmurs  over  the  weary  sea — 
And  seems  to  sing  from  everywhere — 
' '  Here  mayest  thou  harbor  peacefully, 
Here  mayest  thou  rest  from  the  aching  oar 

Turn  thy  curved  prow  ashore, 
And  in  our  green  isle  rest  for  evermore 

For  evermore ! 

And  Echo  half  wakes  in  the  wooded  hill, 
And,  to  her  heart  so  calm  and  deep, 
Murmurs  over  in  her  sleep, 
Doubtfully  pausing  and  murmuring  still, 
"Evermore.'" 

Thus,  on  Life's  weary  sea; 
Heareth  the  marinere 
Voices  sweet,  from  far  and  near, 
Ever  singing  low  and  clear, 
Ever  singing  longingly. 

Is  it  not  better  here  to  be, 
Than  to  be  toiling  late  and  soon? 
In  the  dreary  night  to  see 
Nothing  but  the  blood-red  moon 
Go  up  and  down  into  the  sea; 
Or,  in  the  loneliness  of  day, 

To  see  the  still  seas  only, 
Solemnly  lift  their  faces  gray, 

Making  it  yet  more  lonely? 
Is  it  not  better,  than  to  hear 
Only  the  sliding  of  the  wave 
Beneath  the  plank,  and  feel  so  near 
A  cold  and  lonely  grave, 
A  restless  grave,  where  thou  shalt  lie 
Even  in  death  unquietly? 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  181 

Look  down  beneath  thy  wave-worn  bark, 

Lean  over  the  side  and  see 
The  leaden  eye  of  the  side-long  shark 

Upturned  patiently, 
Ever  waiting  there  for  thee : 
Look  down  and  see  those  shapeless  forms, 
Which  ever  keep  their  dreamless  sleep 
Far  down  within  the  gloomy  deep, 
And  only  stir  themselves  in  storms, 
Rising  like  islands  from  beneath, 
And  snorting  through  the  angry  spray, 
As  the  frail  vessel  perisheth 
In  the  whirls  of  their  unwieldy  play; 

Look  down !     Look  down ! 
Upon  the  seaweed,  slimy  and  dark, 
That  waves  its  arms  so  lank  and  brown, 

Beckoning  for  thee ! 

Look  down  beneath  thy  wave-worn  bark 
Into  the  cold  depth  of  the  sea ! 
Look  down !     Look  down ! 
Thus,  on  Life's  lonely  sea, 
Heareth  the  marinere 
Voices  sad,  from  far  and  near, 
Ever  singing  full  of  fear, 
Ever  singing  drearfully. 

Here  all  is  pleasant  as  a  dream ; 
The  mind  scarce  shaketh  down  the  dew, 
The  green  grass  floweth  like  a  stream 
Into  the  ocean's  blue: 

Listen!     O  listen! 
Here  is  a  gush  of  many  streams, 

A  song  of  many  birds, 
And  every  wish  and  longing  seems 


182  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Lulled  to  a  numbered  flow  of  words — 

Listen !     O  listen ! 
Here  ever  hum  the  golden  bees 
Underneath  full-blossomed  trees, 
At     once    with    glowing     fruit     and     flower 

crowned ; — 

The  sand  is  so  smooth,  the  yellow  sand, 
That  thy  keel  will  not  grate,  as  it  touches  the 

land ; 

All  around,  with  a  slumberous  sound, 
The  singing  waves  slide  up  the  strand, 
And  there,  where  the  smooth  wet  pebbles  be, 
The  waters  gurgle  longingly, 
As  if  they  fain  would  seek  the  shore, 
To  be  at  rest  from  the  ceaseless  roar, 
To  be  at  rest  for  evermore — 
For  evermore. 

Thus,  on  Life's  gloomy  sea, 
Heareth  the  marinere 
Voices  sweet,  far  and  near, 
Ever  singing  in  his  ear, 
"Here  is  rest  and  peace  for  thee!" 
Nantasket,  July,  1840. 


A  FEELING. 

The  flowers  and  the  grass  to  me 

Are  eloquent  reproachfully ; 

For  would  they  wave  so  pleasantly 

Or  look  so  fresh  and  fair, 

If  a  man,  cunning,  hollow,  mean, 

Or  one  in  anywise  unclean, 

Were  looking  on  them  there? 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  183 

No;  he  hath  grown  so  foolish-wise 
He  cannot  see  with  childhood's  eyes; 
He  hath  forgot  that  purity 
And  lowliness  which  are  the  key 
Of  Nature's  mysteries; 
No ;  he  hath  wandered  off  so  long 
From  his  own  place  of  birth, 
That  he  hath  lost  his  mother-tongue, 
And,  like  one  come  from  far-off  lands, 
Forgetting  and  forgot,  he  stands 
Beside  his  mother's  hearth. 


THE  BEGGAR. 

A  beggar  through  the  world  am  I, 
From  place  to  place  I  wander  by; — 
Fill  up  my  pilgrim's  scrip  for  me, 
For  Christ's  sweet  sake  and  charity. 

A  little  of  thy  steadfastness, 
Rounded  with  leafy  gracefulness, 
Old  oak,  give  me — 

That  the  world's  blasts  may  round  me  blow, 
And  I  yield  gently  to  and  fro, 
While  my  stout-hearted  trunk  below 
And  firm-set  roots  unmoved  be. 

Some  of  thy  stern,  unyielding  might, 
Enduring  still  through  day  and  night 
Rude  tempest-shock  and  withering  blight — 
That  I  may  keep  at  bay 
The  changeful  April  sky  of  chance 
And  the  strong  tide  of  circumstance- 
Give  me,  old  granite  gray. 


184  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Some  of  thy  mournf  ulness  serene, 
Some  of  thy  never-dying  green, 
Put  in  this  scrip  of  mine — 
That  grief  may  fall  like  snowflakes  light, 
And  deck  me  in  a  robe  of  white, 
Ready  to  be  an  angel  bright — 
O  sweetly  mournful  pine. 

A  little  of  thy  merriment, 
Of  thy  sparkling  light  content, 
Give  me  my  cheerful  brook — 
That  I  may  still  be  full  of  glee 
And  gtedsomeness,  where'er  I  be, 
Though  nckle  fate  hath  prisoned  me 
In  some  neglected  nook. 

Ye  have  been  very  kind  and  good 
To  me,  since  I've  been  in  the  wood; 
Ye  have  gone  nigh  to  fill  my  heart ; 
But  good-bye,  kind  friends,  every  one, 
I've  far  to  go  ere  set  of  sun; 
Of  all  good  things  I  would  have  part, 
The  day  was  high  ere  I  could  start, 
And  so  my  journey's  scarce  begun. 

Heaven  help  me !  how  could  I  forget 
To  beg  of  thee,  dear  violet ! 
Some  of  thy  modesty, 
That  flowers  here  as  well,  unseen, 
As  if  before  the  world  thou  'dst  been, 
O  give,  to  strengthen  me. 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  185 


SERENADE. 

From  the  close-shut  windows  gleams  no  spark, 
The  night  is  chilly,  the  night  is  dark, 
The  poplars  shiver,  the  pine-trees  moan, 
My  hair  by  the  autumn  breeze  is  blown, 
Under  thy  window  I  sing  alone, 
Alone,  alone,  ah  woe !  alone ! 

The  darkness  is  pressing  coldly  around, 
The  windows  shake  with  a  lonely  sound, 
The  stars  are  hid  and  the  night  is  drear, 
The  heart  of  silence  throbs  in  thine  ear, 
In  thy  chamber  thou  sittest  alone, 
Alone,  alone,  ah  woe !  alone ! 

The  world  is  happy,  the  world  is  wide, 
Kind  hearts  are  beating  on  every  side ; 
Ah,  why  should  we  lie  so  curled 
Alone  in  the  shell  of  this  great  world? 
Why  should  we  any  more  be  alone? 
Alone,  alone,  ah  woe!  alone!    • 

O !  'tis  a  bitter  and  dreary  word, 
The  saddest  by  man's  ear  ever  heard; 
We  each  are  young,  we  each  have  a  heart, 
Why  stand  we  ever  coldly  apart? 
Must  we  forever,  then,  be  alone? 
Alone,  alone,  ah  woe!  alone! 


186  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 


IRENE. 

Hers  is  a  spirit  deep  and  crystal-clear ; 
Calmly  beneath  her  earnest  face  it  lies, 
Free  without  boldness,  meek  without  a  fear, 
Quicker  to  look  than  speak  its  sympathies ; 
Far  down  into  her  large  -and  patient  eyes 
I  gaze,  deep-drinking  of  the  infinite, 
As,  in  the  mid- watch  of  a  clear,  still  night, 
I  look  into  the  fathomless  blues  kies. 

So  circled  lives  she  with  Love's  holy  light, 
That  from  the  shade  of  self  she  walketh  free ; 
The  garden  of  her  soul  still  keepeth  she 
An  Eden  where  the  snake  did  never  enter; 
She  hath  a  natural,  wise  sincerity, 
A  simple  truthfulness, 'and  these  have  lent  her 
A  dignity  as  moveless  as  the  centre ; 
So  that  no  influence  of  earth  can  stir 
Her  steadfast  courage,  or  can  take  away 
The  holy  peacefulness,  which,  night  and  day 
Unto  her  queenly  soul  doth  minister. 

Most  gentle  is  she ;  her  large  charity 
(An  all  unwitting,  childlike  gift  in  her) 
Not  freer  is  to  give  than  meek  to  bear ; 
And,  though  herself  not  unacquaint  with  care, 
Hath  in  her  heart  wide  room  for  all  that  be — 
Her  heart  that  hath  no  secrets  of  its  own, 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  187 

But  open  is  as  eglantine  full-blown, 
Cloudless  forever  is  her  brow  serene, 
Speaking  calm  hope  and    trust    within    her, 

whence 

Welleth  a  noiseless  spring  of  patience 
That  keepeth  all  her  life  so  fresh,  so  green 
And  full  of  holiness,  that  every  look, 
The  greatness  of  her  woman's  soul  revealing, 
Unto  me  bringeth  blessing,  and  a  feeling 
As  when  I  read  in  God's  own  holy  book. 


A  graciousness  in  giving  that  doth  make 
The  small  'st  gift  greatest,  and  a  sense  most 

meek 

Of  worthiness,  that  doth  not  fear  to  take 
From  others,  but  which  always  fears  to  speak 
Its  thanks  in  utterance,  for  the  giver's  sake; — 
The  deep  religion  of  a  thankful  heart, 
Which  rests  instinctively  with  Heaven's  law; 
With  a  full  peace,  that  never  can  depart 
From  its  own  steadfastness ; — a  holy  awe 
For  holy  things,  not  those  which  men  call  holy, 
But  such  as  are  revealed  to  the  eyes 
Of  a  true  woman's  soul  bent  down  and  lowly 
Before  the  face  of  daily  mysteries ; — 
A  love  that  blossoms  soon,  but  ripens  slowly 
To  the  full  goldenness  of  fruitful  prime, 
Enduring  with  a  firmness  that  defies 
All  shallow  tricks  of  circumstance  and  time, 
By  a  sure  insight  knowing  where  to  cling, 
And  where  it  clingeth  never  withering — 
These  are  Irene's  dowry — which  no  fate 
Can  shake  from  their  serene,  deep-builded  state. 


188  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

In-seeing  sympathy  is  hers,  which  chasteneth 
No  less  loveth,  scorning  to  be  bound 
With  fear  of  blame,  and  yet  which  ever  hasten- 

eth 

To  pour  the  balm  of  kind  looks  on  the  wound, 
If  they  be  wounds  which  such  sweet  teaching 

makes, 

Giving  itself  a  pang  for  others'  sakes; 
No  want  of  faith,  that  chills  with    side-long 

eye, 

Hath  she ;  no  jealousy,  no  Levite  pride 
That  passeth  by  upon  the  other  side ; 
For  in  her  soul  there  never  dwelt  a  lie, 
Right  from  the  hand  of  God  her  spirit  came 
Unstained,  and  she  hath  ne'er  forgotten  whence 
It  came,  nor  wandered  far  from  thence, 
But  laboreth  to  keep  her  still  the  same, 
Near  to  her  place  of  birth,  that  she  may  not 
Soil  her  white  raiment  with  an  earthly  spot. 

Yet  sets  she  not  her  soul  so  steadily 
Above,  that  she  forgets  her  ties  to  earth, 
But  her  whole  thought  would  almost  seem  to 

be 

How  to  make  glad  one  lowly  human  hearth  • 
For  with  a  gentle  courage  she  doth  strive 
In  thought  and  word  and  feeling  so  to  live 
As  to  make  earth  next  Heaven ;  and  her  heart 
Herein  doth  show  its  most  exceeding  worth, 
That,  bearing  in  our  frailty  her  just  part, 
She  hath  not  shrunk  from  evils  of  this  life, 
But  hath  gone  calmly  forth  into  the  strife, 
And  all  its  sins  and  sorrows  hath  withstood 
With  lofty  strength  of  patient  womanhood  r 


LOWELLS  POEMS.  189 

For  this  I  love  her  great  soul  more  than  all, 
That,  being  bound,  like  us,  with  earthly  thrall, 
She  walks  so  bright  and  Heaven-wise  therein — 
Too  wise,  too  meek,  too  womanly  to  sin. 

Exceeding  pleasant  to  mine  eyes  is  she ; 
Like  a  lone  star  through  riven  storm-clouds 

seen 

By  sailors,  tempest-tost  upon  the  sea, 
Telling  of  rest  and  peaceful  havens  nigh, 
Unto  my  soul  her  star-like  soul  hath  been, 
Her  sight  as  full  of  hope  and  calm  to  me ; — 
For  she  unto  herself  hath  builded  high, 
A  home  serene,  wherein  to  lay  her  head, 
Earth's  noblest  thing — a  Woman  perfected. 


THE   LOST   CHILD. 


I  wandered  down  the  sunny  glade 
And  ever  mused,  my  love,  of  thee ; 

My  thoughts,  like  little  children,  played, 
As  gaily  and  as  guilelessly. 

n. 

If  any  chanced  to  go  astray, 

Moaning  in  fear  of  coming  harms, 

Hope  brought  the  wanderer  back  alway, 
Safe  nestled  in  her  snowy  arms. 

in. 

From  that  soft  nest  the  happy  one 
Looked  up  at  me  and  calmly  smiled; 


190  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Its  hair  shone  golden  in  the  sun, 
And  made  it  seem  a  heavenly  child. 


IV. 


Dear  Hope's  blue  eyes  smiled  mildly  down, 
And  blest  it  with  a  love  so  deep, 

That,  like  a  nurseling  of  her  own, 
It  clasped  her  neck  and  fell  asleep. 


THE   CHURCH. 


I  love  the  rites  of  England's  church; 

I  love  to  hear  and  see 
The  priest  and  people  reading  slow 

The  solemn  Litany; 
I  love  to  hear  the  glorious  swell 

Of  chanted  psalm  and  prayer, 
And  the  deep  organ's  bursting  heart, 

Throb  through  the  shivering  air. 

n. 

Chants,  that  a  thousand  years  have  heard 

I  love  to  hear  again, 
For  visions  of  the  olden  time 

Are  wakened  by  the  strain ; 
With  gorgeous  hues  the  window-glass 

Seems  suddenly  to  glow 
And  rich  and  red  the  streams  of  light 

Down  through  the  chancel  flow. 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  191 

III. 

And  then  I  murmur,  ''Surely,  God 

Delighteth  here  to  dwell ; 
This  is  the  temple  of  his  Son 

Whom  he  doth  love  so  well;" 
But,  when  I  hear  the  creed  which  saith, 

This  church  alone  is  His, 
I  feel  within  my  soul  that  He 

Hath  purer  shrines  than  this. 

IV. 

For  his  is  not  the  builded  church, 

Nor  organ-shaken  dome ; 
In  everything  that  lovely  is 

He  loves  and  hath  his  home ; 
And  most  in  soul  that  loveth  well 

All  things  which  he  hath  made, 
Knowing  no  creed  but  simple  faith 

That  may  not  be  gainsaid. 

v. 

His  church  is  universal  Love, 

And  whoso  dwells  therein 
Shall  need  no  customed  sacrifice 

To  wash  away  his  sin ; 
And  music  in  its  aisles  shall  swell, 

Of  lives  upright  and  true, 
Sweet  as  dreamed  sounds  of  angel-harps 

Down-quivering  through  the  blue. 

VI. 

They  shall  not  ask  a  litany, 

The  souls  that  worship  there, 
But  every  look  shall  be  a  hymn, 


192  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

And  every  word  a  prayer; 
Their  service  shall  be  written  bright 

In  calm  and  holy  eyes, 
And  every  day  from  fragrant  hearts 

Fit  incense  shall  arise. 


THE  UNLOVELY. 

The  pretty  things  that  others  wear 
Look  strange  and  out  of  place  on  me, 
I  never  seem  dressed  tastefully, 

Because  I  am  not  fair; 
And,  when  I  would  most  pleasing  seem, 
And  deck  myself  with  joyful  care, 
I  find  it  is  an  idle  dream, 

Because  I  am  not  fair. 

If  I  put  roses  in  my  hair, 
They  bloom  as  if  in  mockery; 
Nature  denies  her  sympathy, 

Because  I  am  not  fair ; 
Alas!  I  have  a  warm,  true  heart, 
But  when  I  show  it  people  stare ; 
1  must  forever  dwell  apart, 

Because  I  am  not  fair. 

1  am  least  happy  being  where 
The  hearts  of  others  are  most  light, 
And  strive  to  keep  me  out  of  sight, 

Because  I  am  not  fair ; 
The  glad  ones  often  give  a  glance, 
As  I  am  sitting  lonely  there, 
That  asks  me  why  I  do  not  dance — 

Because  I  am  not  fail. 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  193 

And  if  to  smile  on  them  I  dare, 
For  that  my  heart  with  love  runs  o'er, 
They  say:  "What  is  she  laughing  for?" — 

Because  I  am  not  fair; 
Love  scorned  or  misinterpreted — 
It  is  the  hardest  thing  to  bear ; 
I  often  wish  that  I  were  dead, 

Because  I  am  not  fair. 

In  joy  or  grief  I  must  not  share, 
For  neither  smiles  nor  tears  on  me 
Will  ever  look  becoming!)'-, 

Because  I  am  not  fair; 
Whole  days  I  sit  alone  and  cry, 
And  in  my  grave  I  wish  I  were — 
Yet  none  will  weep  me  if  I  die, 

Because  I  am  not  fair. 

My  grave  will  be  so  lone  and  bare, 
I  fear  to  think  of  those  dark  hours, 
For  none  will  plant  it  o'er  with  flowers, 

Because  I  am  not  fair; 
They  will  not  in  the  summer  come 
And  speak  kind  words  above  me  there ; 
To  me  the  grave  will  be  no  home, 

Because  I  am  not  fair. 


13   Lowell 


194  LOWELL'S   POEMS. 


LOVE-SONG. 

Nearer  to  thy  mother-heart, 
Simple  Nature,  press  me, 
Let  me  know  thee  as  thou  art, 
Fill  my  soul  and  bless  me! 
I  have  loved  thee  long  and  well, 
I  have  loved  thee  heartily; 
Shall  I  never  with  thee  dwell, 
Never  be  at  one  with  thee? 

Inward,  inward  to  thy  heart, 
Kindly  Nature,  take  me, 
Lovely  even  as  thou  art, 
Full  of  loving  make  me ! 
Thou  knowest  naught  of  dead-cold  forms, 
Knowest  naught  of  littleness, 
Lifeful  Truth  thy  being  warms, 
Majesty  and  earnestness. 

Homeward,  homeward  to  thy  heart, 
Dearest  Nature,  call  me ; 
Let  no  halfness,  no  mean  part, 
Any  longer  thrall  me ! 
I  will  be  thy  lover  true, 
Will  be  a  faithful  soul, 
Then  circle  me,  then  look  me  through, 
Fill  me  with  the  mighty  Whole. 


LOWELL'S   POEMS.  I9S 


SONG. 

All  things  are  sad: — 
I  go  and  ask  of  Memory, 
That  she  tells  sweet  tales  to  me 

To  make  me  glad ; 
And  she  takes  me  by  the  hand, 

Leadeth  to  old  places, 

Showeth  the  old  faces 
In  her  hazy  mirage-land; 
O,  her  voice  is  sweet  and  low, 
And  her  eyes  are  fresh  to  mine 
As  the  dew 
Gleaming  through 
The  half -unfolded  Eglantine, 
Long  ago,  long  ago! 
But  I  feel  that  I  am  only 
Yet  more  sad,  and  yet  more  lonely! 

Then  I  turn  to  blue-eyed  Hope, 
And  beg  of  her  that  she  will  ope 
Her  golden  gates  for  me ; 
She  is  fair  and  f uM  of  grace, 
But  she  hath  the  form  and  face 
Of  her  mother  Memory ; 
Clear  as  air  her  glad  voice  ringeth, 
Joyous  are  the  songs  she  singeth, 
Yet  I  hear  them  mournfully ; — 
They  are  songs  her  mother  taught  her, 


196  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Crooning  to  her  infant  daughter, 
As  she  lay  upon  her  knee. 
Many  little  ones  she  bore  me, 
Woe  is  me !  in  by-gone  hours, 
Who  danced  along  and  sang  before  me, 
Scattered  my  way  with  flowers ; 
One  by  one 
They  are  gone, 

And  their  silent  graves  are  seen, 
Shining  fresh  with  mosses  green, 
Where  the  rising  sunbeams  slope 
O'er  the  dewy  land  of  Hope. 

But,  when  sweet  Memory  faileth, 
And  Hope  looks  strange  and  cold; 
When  youth  no  more  availeth, 
And  grief  grows  over  bold; — 
When  softest  winds  are  dreary, 
And  summer  sunlight  weary, 
And  sweetest  things  uncheery 

We  know  not  why : — 
When  the  crown  of  our  desires 
Weighs  upon  the  brow  and  tires, 

And  we  would  die, 
Die  for,  ah !  we  know  not  what, 
Something  we  seem  to  have  forgot, 
Something  we  had,  and  now  have  not; — 
When  the  present  is  a  weight 
And  the  future  seems  our  foe, 
And  with  shrinking  eyes  we  wait, 
As  one  who  dreads  a  sudden  blow 
In  the  dark,  he  knows  not  whence ; — 
When  Love  at  last  his- bright  eye  closes, 
And  the  bloom  upon  his  face, 
That  lends  him  such  a  living  grace, 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  197 

Is  a  shadow  from  the  roses 
Wherewith  we  have  decked  his  bier, 
Because  he  once  was  passing  dear; — 
When  we  feel  a  laden  sense 
Of  nothingness  and  impotence, 

Till  we  grow  mad — 
Then  the  body  saith, 

"There's  but  one  true  faith; 
All  things  are  sad!" 

A  LOVE-DREAM. 

Pleasant  thoughts  come  wandering, 

When  thou  art  far,  from  thee  to  me ; 

On  the  silver  wings  they  bring 

A  very  peaceful  ecstasy, 

A  feeling  of  eternal  spring; 

So  that  Winter  half  forgets 

Everything  but  that  thou  art, 

And,  in  his  bewildered  heart, 

Dreameth  of  the  violets, 

Or  those  bluer  flowers  that  ope, 

Flowers  of  steadfast  love  and  hope, 

Watered  by  the  living  wells, 

Of  memories  dear,  and  dearer  prophecies, 

When  young  spring  forever  dwells 

In  the  sunshine  of  thine  eyes. 

I  have  most  holy  dreams  of  thee, 

All  night  I  have  such  dreams; 
And,  when  I  awake,  reality 

No  whit  the  darker  seems ; 
Through  the  twin  gates  of  Hope  and  Mem 
ory 


198  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

They  pour  in  crystal  streams 
From  out  an  angel's  calmed  eyes, 
Who,  from  twilight  till  sunrise, 
Far  away  in  the  upper  deep, 
Poised  upon  his  shining  wings, 
Over  us  his  watch  doth  keep, 
And,  as  he  watcheth,  ever  sings. 

Through  the  still  night  I  hear  him  sing, 

Down-looking  on  our  sleep ; 
I  hear  his  clear,  harp-strings  ring, 
And,  as  the  golden  notes  take  wing, 
Gently  downward  hovering, 

For  very  joy  I  weep ; 
He  singeth  songs  of  holy  Love, 
That  quiver  through  the  depths  afar, 
Where  the  blessed  spirits  are, 
And  lingeringly  from  above 
Shower  till  the  morning  star 
His  silver  shield  hath  buckled  on 
And  sentinels  the  dawn  alone, 
Quivering  his  gleamy  spear 
Through  the  dusky  atmosphere. 

Almost,  my  love,  I  fear  the  morn, 
When  that  blessed  voice  shall  cease, 
Lest  it  should  leave  me  quite  forlorn, 
Stript  of  my  snowy  robe  of  peace ; 
And  yet  the  bright  reality 
Is  fairer  than  all  dreams  can  be, 
For,  through  my  spirit,  all  day  long, 
Ring  echoes  of  that  angel-song 
In  melodious  thoughts  of  thee ; 
And  well  I  know  it  cannot  die 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  199 

Till  eternal  morn  shall  break, 

For,  through  life's  slumber,  thou  and  I 

Will  keep  it  for  each  other's  sake, 

And  it  shall  not  be  silent  when  we  wake. 


FOURTH  OF  JULY  ODE. 


Our  fathers  fought  for  Liberty, 
They  struggled  long  and  well, 
History  of  their  deeds  can  tell — 
But  did  they  leave  us  free? 

ii. 

Are  we  free  from  vanity, 
Free  from  pride,  and  free  from  self, 
Free  from  love  of  power  and  self, 
From  everything  that's  beggarly? 

in.  ' 

Are  we  free  from  stubborn  will, 
From  low  hate  and  malice  small, 
From  opinion's  tyrant  thrall? 
Are  none  of  us  our  own  slaves  still? 

IV. 

Are  we  free  to  speak  our  thought, 
To  be  happy,  and  be  poor, 
Free  to  enter  Heaven's  door, 
To  live  and  labor  as  we  ought? 


200  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

v. 

Are  we  then  made  free  at  last 
Prom  the  fear  of  what  men  say, 
Free  to  reverence  To-day, 
Free  from  the  slavery  of  the  Past? 

VI. 

Our  fathers  fought  for  liberty, 
They  struggled  long  and  well, 
History  of  their  deeds  can  tell — 
But  ourselves  must  set  us  free. 


SPHINX, 
i. 

Why  mourn  we  for  the  golden  prime 
When  our  young  souls  were  kingly,  strong,  and 
true? 

The  soul  is  greater  than  all  time, 
It  changes  not,  but  yet  is  ever  new. 

n. 

But  that  the  soul  is  noble,  we 
Could  never  know  what  nobleness  had  been ; 

Be  what  ye  dream !  and  earth  shall  see 
A  greater  greatness  than  she  e'er  hath  seen. 

in. 

The  flower  pines  not  to  be  fair, 
It  never  asketh  to  be  sweet  and  dear, 

But  gives  itself  to  sun  and  air, 
And  so  is  fresh  and  full  from  year  to  year. 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  201 


IV. 

Nothing  in  Nature  weeps  its  lot, 
Nothing,  save  man,  abides  in  memory, 

Forgetful  that  the  Past  is  what 
Ourselves  may  choose  the  coming  time  to  be. 

v. 

All  things  are  circular ;  the  Past 
Was  given  us  to  make  the  Future  great; 

And  the  void  Future  shall  at  last 
Be  the  strong  rudder  of  an  after  fate. 

VI. 

We  sit  beside  the  Sphinx  of  Life, 
We  gaze  into  its  void,  unanswering  eyes, 

And  spend  ourselves  in  idle  strife 
To  read  the  riddle  of  their  mysteries. 

YII. 

Arise !  be  earnest  and  be  strong ! 
The  Sphinx's  eyes  shall  suddenly  grow  clear, 

And  speak  as  plain  to  thee  ere  long, 
As  the  dear  maiden's  who  holds  thee  most  dear. 

VIII. 

The  meaning  of  all  things  in  us — 
Yea,  in  the  lives  we  give  our  souls — doth  lie ; 

Make,  then,  their  meaning  glorious 
By  such  a  life  as  need  not  fear  to  die ! 

IX. 

There  is  no  heart-beat  in  the  day, 
Which  bears  a  record  of  the  smallest  deed, 


202  LOWELLS  POEMS. 

But  holds  within  its  faith  alway 
That  which  in  doubt  we  vainly  strive  to  read. 


x. 


One  seed  contains  another  seed, 
And  that  a  third,  and  so  for  evermore ; 

And  promise  of  as  great  a  deed 
Lies  folded  in  the  deed  that  went  before. 


XI. 


So  ask  not  fitting  space  or  time, 
Yet  could  not  dream  of  things  which  could  not 
be, 

Each  day  shall  make  the  next  sublime, 
And  Time  be  swallowed  in  Eternity. 


XII. 


God  bless  the  Present !  it  is  all ; 
It  has  been  Future,  and  it  shall  be  Past ; 

Awake  and  live !  thy  strength  recall, 
And  in  one  trinity  unite  them  fast. 


XIII. 


Action  and  Life — lo !  here  the  key 
Of  all  on  earth  that  seemeth  dark  and  wrong ; 

Win  this — and,  with  it,  freely  ye 
May  enter  that  bright  realm  for  which  ye  long. 


XIV. 


Then  all  these  bitter  questionings 
Shall  with  a  full  and  blessed  answer  meet ; 

Past  worlds,  whereof  the  Poet  sings, 
Shall  be  the  earth  beneath  his  snow-white  fleet 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  203 


"GOE,  LITTLE  BOOKE!" 

Go  little  book !  the  world  is  wide, 
There's  room  and  verge  enough  for  thee ; 
For  thou  hast  learned  that  only  pride 
Lacketh  fit  opportunity, 
Which  comes  unhid  to  modesty. 

Go!  win  thy  way  with  gentleness: 
I  send  thee  forth,  my  first-born  child, 
Quite,  quite  alone,  to  face  the  stress 
Of  fickle  skies  and  pathways  wild, 
Where  few  can  keep  them  undefiled. 

Thou  earnest  from  a  poet's  heart, 
A  warm,  still  home,  and  full  of  rest; 
Far  from  the  pleasant  eyes  thou  art 
Of  those  who  know  and  love  thee  best, 
And  by  whose  hearthstones  thou  wert-blest 

Go !  knock  thou  softly  at  the  door 
Where  any  gentle  spirit's  bin, 
Tell  them  thy  tender  feet  are  sore, 
Wandering  so  far  from  all  thy  kin, 
And  ask  if  thou  may  enter  in. 

Beg  thou  a  cup-full  from  the  spring 
Of  Charity,  in  Christ's  dear  name; 
Few  will  deny  so  small  a  thing, 
Nor  ask  unkindly  if  thou  came 
Of  one  whose  life  might  do  thee  shame. 

We  all  are  prone  to  go  astray, 
Our  hopes  are  bright,  our  lives  are  dim; 


204  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

But  thou  art  pure,  and  if  they  say, 
"We  know  thy  father,  and  our  whim 
He  pleases  not," — plead  thou  for  him. 

For  many  are  by  whom  all  truth, 
That  speaks  not  in  their  mother-tongue, 
Is  stoned  to  death  with  hands  unruth, 
Or  hath  its  patient  spirit  wrung 
Cold  words  and  colder  looks  among. 

Yet  fear  not !  for  skies  are  fair 
To  all  whose  souls  are  fair  within ; 
Thou  wilt  find  shelter  everywhere 
With  those  to  whom  a  different  kin 
Is  not  a  damning  proof  of  sin. 

But,  if  all  others  are  unkind, 
There's  one  heart  whither  thou  canst  fly 
For  shelter  from  the  biting  wind ; 
And,  in  that  home  of  purity, 
It  were  no  bitter  thing  to  die. 


SONNETS, 
i. 

DISAPPOINTMENT. 

I  pray  thee  call  not  this  society ; 

I  asked  for  bread,  thou  givest  me  a  stone ; 

I  am  an  hungered,  and  I  find  not  one 

To  give  me  meat,  to  joy  or  grive  with  me ; 

I  find  not  here  what  I  went  out  to  see — 

Souls  of  true  men,  of  women  who  can  move 

The  deeper,  better  part  of  us  to  love, 

Souls  that  can  hold  with  mine  communion  free. 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  205 

Alas!  must  then  these  hopes,  these  longings 

high, 

This  yearning  of  the  soul  for  brotherhood, 
And  all  that  makes  us  pure,  and  wise,   and 

good, 

Come  broken-hearted,  home  again  to  die? 
No,  Hope  is  left,  and  prays  with  bended  head, 
"Give  us  this  day,  O  God,  our  daily  bread!" 

ii. 

Great  human  nature,  whither  art  thou  fled? 
Are  these  things  creeping  forth  and  back  agen, 
These  hollow  formalists  and  echoes,  men? 
Art  thou  entombed  with  the  mighty  dead? 
In  God's  name,  no!  not  yet  hath  all  been  said, 
Or  done,  or  longed  for,  that  is  truly  great ; 
These  pitiful  dried  crusts  will  never  sate 
Natures  for  which  pure  Truth  is  daily  bread  ; 
We  were  not  meant  to  plod  along  the  earth, 
Strange  to  ourselves  and  to  our  fellows  strange ; 
We  were  not  meant  to  struggle  from  our  birth, 
To  skulk  and  creep,  and  in  mean  pathways 

range; 
Act!  with  stern  truth,  large  faith,  and  loving 

will! 
Up  and  be  doing !  God  is  with  us  still. 

in. 

TO    A    FRIEND. 

One  strip  of  bark  may  feed  the  broken  tree, 
Giving  to  some  few  limbs  a  sickly  green ; 
And  one  light  shower  on  the  hills,  I  ween, 
May  keep  the  spring  from  drying  utterly. 


206  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Thus  seemeth  it  with  these  our  hearts  to  be ; 
Hope  is  the  strip  of  bark,  the  shower  of  rain, 
And  so  they  are  not  wholly  crushed  with  pain. 
But  live  and  linger  on,  for  sadder  sight  to  see, 
Much  do  they  err,  who  tell  us  that  the  heart 
May  not  be  broken ;  what,  then,  can  we  call 
A  broken  heart,  if  this  may  not  be  so, 
This  death  in  life  when,  shrouded  in  its  pall, 
Shunning  and  shunned  it  dwelleth  all  apart, 
Its  power,  its  love,  its  sympathy  laid  low? 

IV. 

So  may  it  be,  but  let  it  not  be  so, 

O,  let  it  not  be  so  with  thee,  my  friend ; 

Be  of  good  courage,  bear  up  to  the  end, 

And  on  thine  after  way  rejoicing  go ! 

We  all  must  suffer,  if  we  aught  would  know ; 

Life  is  a  teacher  stern,  and  wisdom's  crown 

Is  oft  a  crown  of  thorns,   whence,    trickling 

down, 
Blood,  mixed  with  tears,  blinding  her  eyes  doth 

flow; 

But  Time,  a  gentle  nurse,  shall  wipe  away 
This  bloody  sweat,  and  thou  shalt  find  on  earth, 
That  woman  is  not  all  in  all  to  Love, 
But,  living  by  a  new  and  second  birth, 
Thy  soul  shall  see  all  things  below,  above, 
Grow  bright  and  brighter  to  the  perfect  day. 

v. 

O  child  of  Nature !  O  most  meek  and  free, 
Most  gentle  spirit  of  true  nobleness! 
Thou  doest  not  a  worthy  deed  the  less 
Because  the  world  may  not  its  greatness  see; 


LOWELL'S   POEMS.  207 

What  were  a  thousand  triumphings  to  thee, 

Who,  in  thyself,  art  as  a  perfect  sphere 

Wrapt  in  a  bright  and  natural  atmosphere 

Of  mighty-souledness  and  majesty? 

Thy  soul  is  not  too  high  for  lowly  things, 

Feels  not  its  strength  seeing  its  brother  weak. 

Not  for  itself  unto  itself  is  dear, 

But  for  that  it  may  guide  the  wanderings 

Of  fellow-men,  and  to  their  spirits  speak 

The  lofty  faith  of  heart  that  knows  no  fear. 

VI. 

"For  this  true  nobleness  I  seek  in  vain, 
In  woman  and  in  man  I  find  it  not, 
I  almost  weary  of  my  earthly  lot, 
My  life-springs  are   dried    up    with  burning 

pain." — 

Thou  find'st  it  not?     I  pray  th.ee  look  again, 
Look  inward  through  the  depths  of  thine  own 

soul; 
How  is  it  with  thee?     Art  thou  sound  and 

whole 

Doth  narrow  search  show  thee  no  earth  stain? 
Be  noble!  and  the  nobleness  that  lies 
In  other  men,  sleeping  but  never  dead, 
Will  rise  in  majesty  to  meet  thine  own ; 
Then  wilt  thou  see  it  gleam  in  many  eyes, 
Then  will  pure  light  around  thy  path  be  shed, 
And  thou  wilt  nevermore  be  sad  and  lone. 

VII. 
TO 


Deem  it  no  Sodon-fruit  of  vanity, 
Or  fickle  fantasy  of  unripe  youth 


208  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Which  ever  takes  the  fairest  shows  for  truth, 
That  I  should  wish  my  verse  beloved  of  thee ; 
"Pis  love's  deep  thirst  which  may  not  quenched 

be. 

There  is  a  gulf  of  longing  and  unrest, 
A  wild  love-craving  not  to  be  represt, 
Whereto,  in  all  our  hearts,  as  to  the  sea, 
The  streams  of  feeling  do  forever  flow. 
Therefore  it  is  that  thy  well-meted  praise 
Falleth  so  shower-like  and  fresh  on  me, 
Filling  those  springs  which  else  had  sunk  full 

low, 

Lost  in  the  dreary  desert-sands  of  woe, 
Or  parched  by  passion's  fierce  and  withering 

blaze. 


VIII. 

Might  I  be  beloved,  and,  O  most  fair 

And  perfect-ordered  soul,  beloved  of  thee, 

How  should  I  feel  a  cloud  of  earthly  care, 

If  thy  blue  eyes  were  ever  clear  to  me? 

O  woman's  love!     O  flower  most  bright  and 

rare! 

That  blossom'st  brightest  in  extremest  need, 
Woe,  woe  is  me !  that  thy  so  precious  seed 
Is  ever  sown  by  Fancy's  changeful  air, 
And  grows  sometimes  in  poor  and  barren  hearts 
Who  can  be  little  even  in  the  light 
Of  thy  meek  holiness — while  souls  more  great 
Are  left  to  wonder  on  a  starless  night, 
Praying  unheard — and  yet  the  hardest  parts 
Befit  those  best  who  best  can  cope  with  fate. 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  209 

IX. 

Why  should  we  ever  weary  of  this  life? 
Our  souls  should  widen  ever,  not  contract, 
Grow  stronger,  and  not  harder,  in  the  strife, 
Filling  each  moment  with  a  noble  act ; 
If  we  live  thus,  of  vigor  all  compact, 
Doing  our  duty  to  our  fellow-men, 
And  striving  rather  to  exalt  our  race 
Than  our  poor  selves,  with  earnest  hand  or  pen 
We  shall  erect  our  names  a  dwelling-place 
Which  not  all  ages  shall  cast  down  agen ; 
Offspring  of  Time  shall  then  be  born  each  hour, 
Which,  as  of  old,  earth  lovingly  shall  guard, 
To  live  forever  in  youth's  perfect  flower, 
And  guide  her  future  children  Heavenward. 

x. 

GREEN    MOUNTAINS. 

Ye  mountains,  that  far  off  lift  up  your  heads, 
Seen  dimly  through  their  canopies  of  blue, 
The  shade  of  my  unrestful  spirit  sheds 
Distance-created  beauty  over  you ; 
I  am  not  well  content  with  this  far  view ; 
How  may  I  know  what  foot  of  loved-one  treads 
Your  rocks  moss-grown  and  sun-dried  forrent 

beds? 

We  should  love  all  things  better,  of  we  knew 
What  claims  the  meanest  have  upon  our  hearts ; 
Perchance  even  now  some  eye,  that  would  be 

bright 
To  meet  my  own,  looks  on  your  mist-robed 

forms; 
Perchance  your  grandeur  a  deep  joy  imparts 

14 '  Lowell 


210  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

To  souls  that  have  encircled  mine  with  light — 
O  brother-heart,  with  thee  my  spirit  warms! 

XI. 

My  friend,  adown  Life's  valley,  hand  in  hand, 
With  grateful    change    of    grave  and  merry 

speech 

Or  song,  our  hearts  unlocking  each  to  each, 
We'll  journey  onward  to  the  silent  land; 
And  when  stern  Death  shall  loose  that  loving 

band, 

Taking  in  his  cold  hand  a  hand  of  ours, 
The  one  shall  strew  the  other's  grave   with 

flowers, 

Nor  shall  his  heart  a  moment  be  unmanned. 
My  friend  and  brother!  if  thou  goest  first, 
Wilt  thou  no  more  re- visit  me  below? 
Yea,  when  my  heart  seems  happy  causelessly 
And  swells,  not  dreaming  why,   as  it  would 

burst 

With  joy  unspeakable — my  soul  shall  know 
That  thou,  unseen,  art  bending  over  me. 

XII. 

Verse  cannot  vsay  how  beautiful  thou  art, 
How  glorious  the  calmness  of  thine  eyes, 
Full  of  unconquerable  energies, 
Telling  that  thou  hast  acted  well  thy  part. 
No  doubt  or  fear  thy  steady  faith  can  start, 
No  thought  of  evil  dare  come  nigh  to  thee, 
Who  hast  the  courage  meek  of  purity, 
The  self-stayed  greatness  of  a  loving  heart, 
Strong  with  serene,  enduring  fortitude; 
Where'er  thou  art,  that  seems  thy  fitting  place, 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  211 

For  not  of  forms  but  Nature  art  thou  child ; 
And  lowest  things  put  on  a  noble  grace 
When  touched  by  ye,   O  patient,    Ruth-like, 

mild 
And  spotless  hands  of  earnest  womanhood. 

XIII. 

The  soul  would  fain  its  loving  kindness  tell, 
But  custom  hangs  like  lead  upon  the  tongue ; 
The  heart  is  brimful,  hollow  crowds  among, 
When  it  finds  one  whose  life  and  thought  are 

well; 

Up  to  the  eyes  its  gushing  love  doth  swell, 
The  angel  cometh  and  the  waters  move, 
Yet  it  is  fearful  still  to  say  "I  love," 
And  words  come  grating  as  a  jangled  bell.  . 

0  might  we  only  speak  but  what  we  feel, 
Might  the  tongue  pay  but  what  the  heart  doth 

owe, 
Not  Heaven's  great  thunder,  when,  deep  peal 

on  peal, 

It  shakes  the  earth,  could  rouse  our  spirits  so, 
Or  to  the  soul  such  majesty  reveal, 
As  two  short  words  half -spoken  faint  and  low! 

XIV. 

1  saw  a  gate :  a  harsh  voice  spake  and  said, 
"This  is  the  gate  of  Life;"  above  was  writ, 
"Leave  hope  behind,  all  ye  who  enter  it;" 
Then  shrank  my  heart  within  itself  for  dread; 
But,  softer  than  the  summer  rain  is  shed, 
Words  dropt  upon  my  soul,  and  they  did  say, 
"Fear  nothing,    Faith  shall  save  thee,  watch 

and  pray!" 


212  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

So,  without  fear  I  lifted  up  my  head, 
And  lo!  that  writing  was  not,  one  fair  word 
Was  carven  in  its  stead,  and  it  was  "Love." 
Then  rained  once  more  those  sweet  tones  from 

above 

With  healing  on  their  wings :  I  humbly  heard, 
' '  I  am  the  Life,  ask  and  it  shall  be  given ! 
I  am  the  way,  by  me  ye  enter  Heaven!" 

xv. 

I  would  not  have  this  perfect  love  of  ours 
Grow  from  a  single  root,  a  single  stem, 
Bearing  no  goodly  fruit,  but  only  flowers 
That  idly  hide  Life's  iron  diadem: 
It  should  grow  alway  like  that  Eastern  tree 
Whose  limbs  take  root  and  spread  forth  con 
stantly  ; 
That  love  for  one,  from  which  there  doth  not 

spring 

Wide  love  for  all,  is  but  a  worthless  thing. 
Not  in  another  world,  as  poets  prate, 
Dwell  we  apart,  above  the  tide  of  things, 
High  floating  o'er  earth's  clouds  on  faery  wings ; 
But  our  pure  love  doth  ever  elevate 
Into  a  holy  bond  of  brotherhood 
All  earthly  things,  making  them  pure  and  good. 

XVI. 

To  the  dark,  narrow  house  where  loved  ones 

g°, 
Whence  no  steps  outward  turn,  whose  silent 

door 

None  but  the  sexton  knocks  at  any  more, 
Are  they  not  sometimes  with  us  yet  below? 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  213 

The  longings  of  the  soul  would  tell  us  so ; 
Although,  so  pure  and  fine  their  being's  es 
sence, 

Our  bodily  eyes  are  witless  of  their  presence, 
Yet  not  within  the  tomb  their  spirits  glow, 
Like  wizard  lamps  pent  up,  but  whensoever 
With  great  thoughts  worthy  of  their  high  be 
hests 
Our  souls  are  filled,  those  bright  ones  with  us 

be, 
As,  in  the  patriarch's  tent,  his  angel  guests; — 

0  let  us  live  so  worthily,  that  never 
We  may  be  far  from  that  blest  company. 

XVII. 

1  fain  would  give  to  thee  the  loveliest  things, 
For  lovely  things  belong  to  thee  of  right, 
And  thou  hast  been  as  peaceful  to  my  sight, 
As  the  still  thoughts  that   summer    twilight 

brings ; 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  thine  angel  wings 
O  let  me  live !     O  let  me  rest  in  thee, 
Growing  to  thee  more  and  more  utterly, 
Upbearing  and  upborn,  till  outward  things 
Are  only  as  they  share  in  thee  a  part! 
Look  kindly  on  me,  let  thy  holy  eyes 
Bless  me  from  the  deep  fulness  of  thy  heart ; 
So  shall  my  soul  in  its  right  strength  arise, 
And  nevermore  shall  pine  and  shrink  and  start, 
Safe-sheltered  in  thy  full  souled  sympathies. 

XVIII. 

Much  I  had  mused  of  Love,  and  in  my  soul 
There  was  one  chamber  where  I  dared  not  look, 


214  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

So  much  its  dark  and  dreary  voidness  shook 
My  spirit,  feeling  that  I  was  not  whole : 
All  my  deep  longings  flowed  toward  one  goal 
For  long,  long  years,  but  were  not  answered, 
Till  Hope  was  drooping,  Faith  well-nigh  stone 

dead, 

And  I  was  still  a  blind,  earth-delving  mole ; 
Yet  did  I  know  that  God  was  wise  and  good, 
And  would  fulfill  my  being  late  or  soon ; 
Nor  was  such  thought  in  v  lin,  for,  seeing  thee, 
Great  Love  rose  up,  as,  o'er  a  black  pine  wood, 
Round,   bright,  and  clear,  upstarteth  the  full 

moon, 
Filling  my  soul  with  glory  utterly. 

XIX. 

Sayest  thou,   most  beautiful,   that  thou   wilt 

wear 

Flowers  and  leafy  crowns  when  thou  art  old, 
And  that  thy  heart  shall  never  grow  so  cold 
But  they  shall  love  to  wreath  thy  silvered  hair 
And  into  age's  snows  the  hope  of  spring- tide 

bear? 

O,  in  thy  childlike  wisdom's  moveless  hold 
Dwell  ever!  still  the  blessings  manifold 
Of  purity,  of  peace,  and  untaught  care 
For  other's  hearts,  around  thy  pathway  shed, 
And   thou   shalt   have   a   crown  of  deathless 

flowers, 

To  glorify  and  guard  thy  blessed  head 
And  give  their    freshness    to  thy  life's   last 

hours ; 

And,  when  the  Bridegroom  calleth,  they  shall  be 
A  wedding-garment  white  as  sno\v  for  thee. 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  215 

xx. 

Poet !  who  sittest  in  thy  pleasant  room, 
Warming  thy  heart  with  idle  thoughts  of  love, 
And  of  a  holy  life  that  leads  above, 
Striving  to  keep  life's   spring-flower   still   in 

bloom, 

And  lingering  to  snuff  their  fresh  perfume — 
O,  there  were  other  duties  meant  for  thee, 
Than  to  sit  down  in  peacefulness  and  Be) 
O,  there  are  brother-hearts  that  dwell  in  gloom, 
Souls  loathsome,  foul,  and  black  with  daily  sin, 
So  crusted  o'er  with  baseness,  that  no  ray 
Of  heaven's  blessed  light  may  enter  in! 
Come  down,  then,  to  the  hot  and  dusty  way, 
And  lead  them  back  to  hope  and  peace  again — 
For,  save  in  Act,  thy  Love  is  all  in  vain. 

XXI. 
"NO    MORE    BUT    SO?" 

No  more  but  so?     Only  with  uncold  looks, 
And  with  a  hand  not  laggard  to  clasp  mine, 
Think'st  thou  to  pay  what  debt  of  love  is  thine? 
No  more  but  so?     Like  gushing  water-brooks, 
Freshening   and   making   green  the  dimmest 

nooks 

Of  thy  friend's  soul  thy  kindliness  should  flow ; 
But,  if't  is  bounded  by  not  saying  "no," 
I  can  find  more  of  friendship  in  my  books, 
All  lifeless  though  they  be,  and  more,  far  more 
In  every  simplest  moss,  or  flower,  or  tree ; 
Open  to  me  thy  heart  of  hearts'  deep  core, 
Or  never  say  that  I  am  dear  to  thee ; 
Call  me  not  Friend,  if  thou  keep  close  the  door 
That  leads  into  thine  inmost  sympathy. 


216  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

XXII. 
TO    A    VOICE    HEARD    IN    MOUNT    AUBURN. 

Like  the  low  warblings  of  a  leaf-hid  bird, 
Thy  voice  came  to  me  through  the  screening 

trees. 

Singing  the  simplest,  long-known  melodies ; 
I  had  no  glimpse  of  thee,  and  yet  I  heard 
And  blest  thee  for  each  clearly-carolled  word ; 
I  longed  to  thank  thee,  and  my  heart  would 

frame 

Mary  or  Ruth,  some  sisterly,  sweet  name 
For  thee,  yet  could  I  not  my  lips  have  stirred ; 
I  knew  that  thou  wert  lovely,  that  thine  eyes 
Were  blue  and  downcast,  and  methought  large 

tears, 

Unknown  to  thee,  up  to  their  lids  must  rise 
With  half-sad  memories  of  other  years, 
As  to  thyself  alone  thou  sangest  o'er 
Words  that  to  childhood  seemed  to  say  "No 

More!" 

XXIIL 

ON    READING    SPENSER    AGAIN. 

Dear,  gentle  Spenser !  thou  my  soul  dost  lead, 

A  little  child  again,  through  Fairy  land, 

By  many  a  bower  and  stream  of  golden  sand, 

And  many  a  sunny  plain  whose  light  doth  breed 

A  sunshine  in  my  happy  heart,  and  feed 

My  fancy  with  sweet  visions ;  I  become 

A  knight,  and  with  my  charmed  arms  would 

roam 

To  seek  for  fame  in  many  a  wonderous  deed 
Of  high  emprige.-1-for  I  have  seen  the  light 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  217 

Of  Una's  angels'  face,  the  golden  hair 
And  backward  eyes  of  startled  Florimel ; 
And,  for  their  holy  sake,  I  would  outdare 
A  host  of  cruel  Paynims  in  the  fight, 
Or  Archimage  and  all  the  powers  of  Hell. 

XXIV. 

Light  of  mine  eyes !  with  thy  so  trusting  look, 
And  thy  sweet  smile  of  charity  and  love, 
That  from  a  treasure  well  uplaid  above, 
And  from  a  hope  in  Christ  its  blessing  took ; 
Light  of  my  heart)  which,  when  it  could  not 

brook 

The  coldness  of  another's  sympathy, 
Finds  ever  a  deep  peace  and  stay  in  thee, 
Warm  as  the  sunshine  of  a  mossy  nook; 
Light  of  my  soul !  who,  by  the  saintliness 
And  faith  that  acts  itself  in  daily  life, 
Canst  raise  me  above  weakness,  and  canst  bless 
The  hardest  thraldom  of  my  earthly  strife — 
I  dare  not  say  how  much  thou  art  to  me 
Even  to  myself — and  O,  far  less  to  thee ! 

xxv. 

Silent  as  one  who  treads  on  new-fallen  snow, 

Love  came  upon  me  ere  I  was  aware ; 

Not  light  of  heart,  for  there  was  troublous  care 

Upon  his  eyelids,  drooping  them  full  low, 

As  with  sad  memory  of  a  healed  woe ; 

The  cold  rain  shivered  in  his  golden  hair, 

As  if  an  outcast  lot  had  been  his  share, 

And  he  seemed  doubtful  whither  he  should  go: 

Then  he  fell  on  my  neck,  and,  in  my  breast 

Hiding  his  face,  awhile  sobbed  bitterly, 


218  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

As  half  in  grief  to  be  so  long  distrest, 
And  half  in  joy  at  his  security — 
At  last,  uplooking  from  his  place  of  rest, 
His  eyes  shone  blessedness  and  hope  on  me. 

XXVI. 

A  gentleness  that  grows  of  steady  faith ; 
A  joy  that  sheds  its  sunshine  everywhere; 
A  humble  strength  and  readiness  to  bear 
Those  burthens  which  strict  duty  ever  lay'th 
Upon  our  souls; — which  unto  sorrow  saith, 
"Here  is  no  soil  for  thee  to  strike  thy  roots, 
Here  only  grow  those  sweet  and  precious  fruits 
Which  ripen  for  the  soul  that  well  obey'th, 
A  patience  which  the  world  can  neither  give 
Nor  take  away ;  a  courage  strong  and  high, 
That  dares  in  simple  usefulness  to  live, 
And  without  one  sad  look  behind  to  die 
When  that  day  comes ; — these  tell  me  that  our 

love 
Is  building  for  itself  a  home  above. 

XXVII. 

When  the  glad  soul  is  full  to  overflow, 

Unto  the  tongue  all  power  it  denies, 

And  only  trusts  its  secret  to  the  eyes; 

For,  by  an  inborn  wisdom  it  doth  know 

There  is  no  other  eloquence  but  so; 

And,  when  the  tongue's  weak  utterance  doth 

suffice, 

Prisoned  within  the  body's  cell  it  lies, 
Remembering  in  tears  its  exiled  woe : 
That  word  which  all  mankind  so  long  to  hear, 
Which  bears  the  spirit  back  to  whence  it  came, 


LOWELL'S   POEMS.  219 

Maketh  this  sullen  clay  as  crystal  clear, 
And  will  not  be  enclouded  in  a  name; 
It  is  a  truth  which  we  can  feel  and  see, 
But  is  as  boundless  at  Eternity. 

XXVIII. 
TO    THE    EVENING-STAR. 

When    we   have   once   said  lowly   "Evening- 
Star!" 

Words  give  no  more — for,  in  thy  silver  pride, 
Thou  shine st  as  nought  else  can  shine  beside: 
The  thick  smoke,  coiling  round  the  sooty  bar 
Forever,  and  the  customed  lamp-light  mar 
The  stillness  of  my    thought — seeing  things 

glide 

So  samely : — then  I  ope  my  windows  wide, 
And  gaze  in  peace  to  where  thou  shin'st  afar, 
The  wind  that   comes  across  the  faint-white 

snow 

So  freshly,  and  the  river  dimly  seen, 
Seem  like  new  things  that  never  had  been  so. 
Before ;  and  thou  art  bright  as  thou  hast  been 
Since  thy  white  rays  put  sweetness  in  the  eyes 
Of  the  first  souls  that  loved  in  Paradise. 

XXIX. 
READING. 

As  one  who  on  some    well-known  landscape 

looks, 

Be  it  alone,  or  with  some  dear  friend  nigh, 
Each  day  beholdeth  fresh  variety, 
New  harmonies  of  hills,  and  trees,  and  brooks — 
So  is  it  with  the  worthiest  choice  of  books, 


220  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

And  of tenest  read :  if  thou  no  meaning  spy, 
Deem  there  is  meaning  wanting  in  thine  eyes; 
We  are  so  lured  from  judgment  by  the  crooks 
And  winding  ways  of  covert  fantasy, 
Or  turned  unwittingly  down  beaten  tracks 
Of  our  foregone  conclusions,  that  we  see, 
In  our  own  want,  the  writer's  misdeemed  lacks: 
It  is  with  true  books  as  with  Nature,  each 
New  day  of  living  doth  new  insight  teach, 

xxx. 

TO ,    AFTER    A    SNOW-STORM. 

Blue  as  thine  eyes  the  river  gently  flows 
Between  his  banks,  which,  far  as  eye  can  see, 
Are  whiter  than  aught  else  on  earth  may  be, 
Save  inmost  thoughts  that  in  thy  soul  repose ; 
The  trees,  all  crystalled  by  the  melted  snows, 
Sparkle  with  gems  and  silver,  such  as  we 
In  childhood  saw  'mong  groves  of  Faerie, 
And  the  dear  skies  are  sunny-blue  as  those ; 
Still  as  thy  heart,  when  next  mine  own  it  lies 
In  love's  full  safety,  is  the  bracing  air; 
The  earth  is  all  enwrapt  with  draperies 
Snow-white  as  that  pure  love  might  choose  to 

wear — 

O  for  one  moment's  look  into  thine  eyes, 
To  share  the  joy  such  scene  would  kindle  there ! 


LOWELL'S   POEMS.  221 


SONNETS  ON  NAMES. 
i. 

EDITH. 

A  Lily  with  its  frail  cup  filled  with  dew, 
Down-bending  modestly,  snow-white  and  pale, 
Shedding"  faint  fragrance  round  its  native  vale, 
Minds  me  of  thee,  sweet  Edith,  mild  and  true, 
And  of  thy  eyes  so  innocent  and  blue, 
Thy  heart  is  fearful  as  a  startled  hare, 
Yet  hath  in  it  a  fortitude  to  bear 
For  Love's  sake,  and  a  gentle  faith  which  grew 
Of  Love :  need  of  a  stay  whereon  to  lean, 
Felt,  in  thyself,  hath  taught  thee  to  uphold 
And  comfort  others,  and  to  give,  unseen, 
The  kindness  thy  still  love  cannot  withhold: 
Maiden,  I  would  my  sister  thou  hadst  been, 
That  round  thee  I  my  guarding  arms  might 
fold. 

ii. 

ROSE. 

My  ever-lightsome,  ever-laughing  Rose, 
Who  always  speakest  first  and  thinkest  last, 
Thy  full  voice  is  as  clear  as  bugle-blast ; 
Right  from  the  ear  down  to  the  heart  it  goes 
And  says,  "I'm  beautiful!  as  who  but  knows?" 
Thy  name  reminds  me  of  old  romping  days, 
Of  kisses  stolen  in  dark  passage-ways, 


222  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Or  in  the  parlor,  if  the  mother-nose 

Gave  sign  of  drowsy  watch.     I  wonder  where 

Are  gone  thy  tokens,  given  with  a  glance 

So  full  of  everlasting  love  till  morrow, 

Or  a  day's  endless  grieving  for  the  dance 

Last  night  denied,  backed  with  a  lock  of  hair, 

That  spake  of  broken  hearts  and  deadly  sorrow. 

in. 
MARY. 

Dark  hair,  dark  eyes — not  too  dark  to  be  deep 
And  full  of  feeling,  yet  enough  to  glow 
With  fire  when  angered ;  feelings  never  slow, 
But  which  seem  rather  watching  to  forthleap 
From  her  full  breast ;  a  gently-flowing  sweep 
Of  words  in  common  talk,  a  torrent-rush, 
Whenever  through  her  soul  swift  feelings  gush, 
A  heart  less  ready  to  be  gay  than  weep, 
Yet  cheerful  ever;  a  calm  matron-smile, 
That  bids  God  bless  you ;  a  chaste  simpleness, 
With    somewhat,   too,  of  "proper  pride,"  in 

dress; — 

This  portrait  to  my  mind's  eye  came,  the  while 
I  thought  of  thee,  the  well-grown  woman  Mary, 
Whilome  a  gold-haired  laughing  little  fairy. 

IV. 

CAROLINE. 

A  staidness  sobers  o'er  her  pretty  face, 
Which  something  but  ill-hidden  in  her  eyes, 
And  a  quaint  look  about  her  lips  denies; 
A  lingering  love  of  girlhood  you  can  trace 
In  her  checked  laugh  and  half -restrained  pace ; 


LOWELL'S  POEMS.  223 

/ 

And,  when  she  bears  herself  most  womanly, 

It  seems  as  if  a  watchful  mother's  eye 

Kept  down  with  sobering  glance  her  childish 

grace : 

Yet  oftentimes  her  nature  gushes  free 
As  water  long  held  back  by  little  hands, 
Within  a  pump,  and  let  forth  suddenly, 
Until,  her  task  remembering,  she  stands 
A  moment  silent,  smiling  doubtfully, 
Then  laughs  aloud  and  scorns  her  hated  bands. 

v. 

ANNE. 

There  is  a  pensiveness  in  quiet  Anne, 

A  mournful  drooping  of  the  full  gray  eye, 

As  if  she  had  shook  hands  with  misery, 

And   known   some    care   since  her   short  life 

began ; 

Her  cheek  is  seriously  pale,  nigh  wan, 
And,  though  of  cheerfulness  there  is  no  lack, 
You  feel  as  if  she  must  be  dressed  in  black ; 
Yet  is  she  not  of  those  who,  all  they  can, 
Strive  to  be  gay,  and  striving,  seem  most  sad — 
Hers  is  not  grief,  but  silent  soberness; 
You  would  be  startled  if  you  saw  her  glad, 
And  startled  if  you  saw  her  weep,  no  less ; 
She  walks  through  life,  as,  on  the  Sabbath  day, 
She  decorously  glides  to  church  to  pray. 


POEMS  OF  POWER 

By  ELLA  WHEELER  WILCOX 

Containing  her  latest  gems  of  poetry. 
Handsomely  illustrated.    t-    t-    t-    t-    t- ' 


12mo,  cloth $1.00 

Presentation  Edition— white  vellum,  gold  top 1.50 


f  very-Day  Thoughts 

in  Prose  and  Verse 

...  BY  ... 

ELLA  WHEELER  WILCOX 

A  COLLECTION  OF  HEART  TO  HEART  TALKS  ON  TOPICS  OP 
INTEREST  TO 

Husbands  and  Wives  Fathers  and  Mothers 

Lovers  and  Sweethearts  Old  Maids  and  Bachelors 

Replete  with  interest  and  written  in 
the  author's  most  trenchant  style, 
covering  every  phase  of  social  life. 

Handsomely  printed  from  new  plates  made  from  new  type,  exqulsitelu 
bound  in  especially  illuminated  cloth  cover,  with  gold  top. 

Retail  Price,  $1.50 


A  NEW  ILLUSTRATED  EDITION  OF 

MAURINE 

BY  ELLA  WHEELER  WILCOX 

Printed  from  new  plates,  superbly  illustrated  with  exquisite 

halftone  engravings,  reproduced  from  photographs  taken 

especially  for  this  work,  and  illustrating  the  most 

dramatic  scenes  in  this  great  poem. 

Bound  in  cloth,  embellished  with  richly  illuminated  design. 

Retail  Price,  $1.50 
FOR  SALE  BY  ALL  BOOKSELLERS 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-Series  4939 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

A  A      000024868   2 


